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Chapter Text

 

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Present Day…

He knew he was drinking too much.

He knew it but pushed away the thought as he took another swig from the glass sitting on the table next to his chair.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and dropped his head into his hands. His fingers gripped at his head as if that would stop the thoughts spinning through his mind. With a sigh, he raked his fingers through his sandy blonde hair, and rubbed his tired eyes.

He pushed out of the chair and walked over to the window, taking his drink with him. He stared out into the dark rain without really seeing it. He leaned his forehead against the cold window pane and closed his eyes. His body ached with exhaustion, but sleeping wasn't an option right now. Not with the continual nightmares.

As the cold seeped through him, he could see it all happening again. He sagged against the window, fighting the despair.

He could see it all in his mind's eye. Unable to reach him, commanded not to move. Why hadn't he run up there right away? Maybe he could have done something to stop him.

He lifted his shaking hand and emptied the glass, feeling the burn of the whiskey give him the illusion of warmth.

He could see his hand stretched out toward him.

He could hear his desperate words, "Please! Will you do this for me?"

His final, heartfelt words, "Goodbye, John."

Then the free fall, black coat billowing around him.

He didn't see, but heard, felt the sickening thud as if it was happening right in front of him again.

"Damn it!" He jumped and staggered away from the window going back to fill up his glass.

The last thing he wanted was to be re-living the memories over and over while awake. It was bad enough at night, waking up in the pitch black, still shouting his name, trying to figure out where he was.

He looked around the sparse one room flat. It was a small and serviceable, but nothing more. A chair sat in the corner by the window. The lamp on his bedside table gave off enough light to show his bed hadn't been slept in the night before. His gaze wandered over to the desk and his laptop centered in front of the desk chair and a very barely useable kitchenette.

He spent one week at their flat before he left knowing he wasn't going to survive if he stayed. His old army friend, Bill Murray, invited John to stay with him and his family. After one week, unable to impose any longer, he left and bunked with Stamford until he found a job and was able to afford this little place. It was temporary. At least that's what he kept telling himself to make it bearable.

He just had the bare necessities here. Really all his personal belongings were still in 221B, but he couldn't bring himself to go back there. It had been hard enough going back to get clothes and his computer.

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Five months earlier…

When John came down the stairs from his bedroom, the door to the sitting room was open. Forcing himself to enter the room to look for his laptop, he finally found it under a pile of Sherlock's papers, where he'd left it after he "borrowed" it last. When he turned around, he half expected to see Sherlock lounging on the couch.

The emptiness and silence of the flat hit John like physical blow. All the air rushed out of his lungs at the suddenness of it. His stomach twisted and rolled as he leaned against the back of a desk chair, gasping for air. John closed his eyes, struggling to bring himself under control. After several deep, controlled breaths, John grabbed his computer from the desk, trying not to disturb anything else, stuffed it in his bag and, after one last lingering look at the abandoned clutter, walked out shutting the door behind him.

Mrs. Hudson waited at the bottom of the stairs for him. As he walked down tiredly she just put her hand on his arm, and gave it a squeeze, before turning away with tears in her eyes.

He promised to see her soon, slipped out, hailed a cab and went to the new flat. He couldn't call it home. It really wasn't. He didn't have a home anymore. 221B held memories of "home" but was too echoing and empty now.

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Present Day…

Sherlock had been gone almost six months now and he was barely functional.

He was able to hold himself together when he was at work at a nearby surgery. Stamford had given him a reference knowing he needed a job, and they needed a part time doctor. It forced him to leave the flat. It was when he got back to the flat that he fell apart.

He had been ok for a few months. Then the numbness and shock started to wear off. He had gone to his therapist after the first month and relived everything with her. Then he went with Mrs. Hudson to see Sherlock's grave for the first time since the funeral.

Being there and trying to say what he really wanted to tell Sherlock in person was one of the hardest things he had ever done. He had seen men die before, good men, his friends. He'd nearly died, himself, protecting his comrades from snipers. But seeing Sherlock's grave just made it seem more final that his best friend was truly gone.

He asked, no, he begged for a miracle just for him, hoping against hope, against all reason.

His control slipped, and his emotions broke through. For just that moment, he allowed himself a few tears, shielded by the hand over his eyes. He allowed himself a few shuddering sobs, just whispers of the grief breaking his heart. Then he rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand, pinched the bridge of his nose, and sniffed the tears back.

He raised his head, looking out beyond the gravestone, seeing his friend there in his mind's eye. He nodded, as if to say he would try. He paused a moment longer, then with an about face, strode away towards Mrs. Hudson and the waiting cab.

---

Not long after, Mycroft came to see him, on some trumped up excuse. Although John was sure it was just to check in on him. It was all he could do not to deck him. He could feel red hot fury flooding through him when he saw Mycroft at the door. John knew Mycroft could read him as well as Sherlock had; read the rage that was making him shake.

Mycroft stood stiffly in the doorway, just barely inside the door. His hands tightened their grip on his ever present umbrella, as he worked to control his reaction at the sight of the haggard, haunted man before him.

He tried to speak, "John, I wanted to tell you… to explain."

"Don't. Just don't," John interrupted, his voice low and threatening. "I need you to just leave. Right now. I swear if you don't… Just. Go. Now. Don't check on me. Leave me alone! You gave Moriarty what he needed, and left your brother alone. You didn't even warn him. Now he's gone and I'm alone and there's nothing left…." John shook his head, refusing to say anymore, already having said more than he wanted.

Mycroft tried again, a hint of his own pain slipping through his mask. "Let me explain. Let me help…"

John snorted with contempt. "You can't. I don't want your kind of help!"

With that, he turned and slammed the door, Mycroft stepping back just in time to keep from getting hit in the face.

His voice muffled through the door, Mycroft attempted, one last time. "John, please. I need to give you… Sherlock wanted me…"

"Don't you even say his NAME!" John roared. Lashing out in anger and pain he yelled, "You betrayed him! You worried about him. You wanted me to keep him safe, and then you made it impossible for me to do so!" The rage suddenly draining out of him, John leaned against the closed door, breathing heavily.

He heard a tentative whisper, "I'm sorry, John." Then there was a shuffle of feet as Mycroft shifted his weight before turning. His steady steps faded away down the hall.

That was the night John picked up the bottle to drink away the crippling grief that threatened to swamp him.

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John shook himself out of the memories and drank the whole glass down before refilling it with the amber liquid that had become his companion.

When he collapsed onto his bed later that night, he was numb, at least for the moment. He finally was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

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He woke late in the morning to the ringing of his phone.

Greg Lestrade's voice sounded in his ear. "John. I'm on my way over. Be there in about twenty." He hung up before John was able to say anything, not giving him the chance to say no.

When Greg got there, John was up and moving, albeit slowly, making tea. He offered some to Greg and then sat down at the desk, gesturing to the other chair.

Greg sat down on the edge, clearly uncomfortable. He looked around the room seeing the empty bottles of whiskey on the counter, the desk, the bedside table. He looked back at John, taking in his red rimmed eyes, clothes that hung loosely on his frame, the new lines of grief etched into his face.

"John, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

John just looked at him over the rim of his cup.

He didn't have any animosity toward Greg anymore. Greg persisted in calling and seeing John that first month, and in the process, had allowed John to glimpse how much he blamed himself for Sherlock's death. It was never mentioned between them, but when John had started returning his phone calls, and forced himself to go out once in a while with him, Greg knew he was forgiven.

Greg locked eyes with him and tried again. "You have to stop drinking. It's not making anything better, and you know it. You're a doctor. You know the danger, what with your sister and father. You also know it's not doing anything to help with the… the… memories, dreams, whatever."

"What do you know?" John snapped. "How can you even…. I can't sleep. I can barely work. I see him everywhere and I just…" John stopped, his voice cracking, looking away. He clamped his jaw shut and rubbed his left hand on his leg, trying to stop the tremors.

"John, I get it. I really do." Greg continued with a sigh. "I lost my best mate, my partner to a stray bullet when we were on patrol."

"I watched him die in my arms before the medics could get there. I couldn't do anything. I was helpless. I couldn't sleep. The nightmares. The blood I couldn't get off my hands. Having to tell his family, his mother, his wife. I drank. A lot. It just made it worse."

He sighed and leaned back in the chair, not sure if John had really heard him at all.

John was utterly still, staring at the floor. Finally he muttered, "I don't know how to do this. How to keep going on. I'm losing myself. I don't know who I am anymore. I thought I wanted the numbness to go away, but now I want it back. I just… I want it to stop."

Greg leaned forward again. "John…. You're not thinking… I mean you won't – wouldn't do anything stupid will you?"

John's looked at him for a moment before he dropped his gaze back to the floor.

The empty look in his friend's eyes shook Greg more than anything he had said so far. He hadn't expected John, of all people…

"Can you promise me that you won't do anything?"

When John didn't answer and just kept staring at the floor, Greg got up and walked over to the window. He ran a hand through his thick, graying hair and then leaned his forehead against the window as he searched for words.

He cleared his throat.

"John."

He tried again. "John, look at me."

Slowly John turned his body towards him, raising his head slightly.

It was enough to show Greg he was listening even if he wasn't looking at him directly. He grabbed his chair and dragged it over next to John.

"Listen. I knew Sherlock better than anyone, besides you. I worked with him for about five years before he met you. Remember when we first met and you asked me why I put up with him?"

John nodded slightly.

"I told you he was a great man and if we were very, very lucky someday he might even be a good one. That's what I saw happen. Your friendship changed him. Yeah, he was still an annoying and arrogant sod, brilliant like before, but he… I don't know how to put it. He changed. You influenced him. He was more aware of people, of his own weaknesses, became more human."

"He respected you, John. He admired you for your strength and your ability to stay steady, even in the most stressful situations. I could see it. It was the way he looked to you, relied on you. I had never seen him rely on another human being before. Maybe he didn't say the words, but your loyalty and steadfast trust in him… your friendship, it… it saved him."

John drew a shaky breath. "Do you know the last time we saw each other, really face to face was in the lab at St. Bart's? I had just gotten the call that Mrs. Hudson had been shot, and tried to get him to go back with me. When he wouldn't come, I called him a machine." He shook his head.

"I should have known better than to say that. He said that being alone was his protection."

"But, it didn't. He still… he still…" His voice trailed off.

"John, Sherlock wouldn't want to have you spiral down like this. He wouldn't want to see you drinking yourself to death to try to forget."

Greg's voice got rough with emotion. "Yeah, you are going to miss him like hell. And it's going to hurt. But you're strong. Stronger than most people I know, and I know he knew it too. I don't know why the hell he did what he did. But I know that he would have thought you'd be able to make it through. Somehow, you have to keep going. Live for him. Live like he would want you to."

"This, this isn't living, this isn't life!" cried John. "Before I met – him, I was dead, dying. When I started chasing after that bloody idiot, it was like the world suddenly had color again. I had a purpose, even if it was just to be a replacement for his sodding skull! Now… now I'm nothing."

---

Greg's concern grew the more John talked. He was prepared to stay as long as he had to. He wasn't going to leave his friend alone, not now that he knew how he really was doing.

He thought of all the times he'd seen John and Sherlock together. When he first appeared with Sherlock, he seemed to be quiet, mild mannered and so easy going. John stayed in the background, but he always knew the right time to step forward. With just a quiet word or a hand on his arm he could stop Sherlock in the middle of a tirade of abuse.

He was shocked the first time he's observed John in a tight spot as his military training kicked in, taking command of the situation, barking orders to keep people safe. Then he'd pulled out his gun, his hands rock stead, demonstrating his lethal, spot on aim. He'd seen him take out men nearly twice his size in hand to hand combat. Then the gun was put away, and the doctor took over, treating the injured, shouting out orders to others, but speaking calmly and quietly to those he worked over. Hell, he'd been on the receiving end of some of that medical care.

Seeing John with such pain and emptiness in his eyes was almost more than Greg could bear. He had hoped that the face John had been showing the outside world in the past few months was the real one. He should have known better. He mentally kicked himself, because as Sherlock would say, he hadn't really observed.

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John's chair scraped against the floor as he jumped up. He felt a pressure building up and he walked blindly over to the window.

John clenched and unclenched his hand that wasn't holding his tea, his back to Greg. He couldn't stop the tremors running through him. He couldn't hear anything over the roaring in his ears. All the guilt, anger and pain rushed to the surface, choking him. Just when he thought he couldn't take another breath, something shattered.

Greg jumped to his feet when John threw his mug across the room and blindly punched the wall. He almost had put his fist through the window but changed direction at the last moment.

Greg stood near John; not touching him, just watching and waiting.

John looked down, blinking dully at his hand and realized it was throbbing in time to his pounding heart. His hand hurt. His shoulder ached. But the mounting pain inside superseded everything. Punching the wall again wasn't going to diffuse it. He knew Greg wasn't going to let him drink, but he didn't want to feel the pain threatening to engulf him.

He threw a desperate, sideways glance at the desk drawer that held his army revolver. He calculated if he could get to the gun before Greg stopped him, if he could overpower the older man long enough to get his hands on it.

Greg saw the look, instinctively reading John's thoughts. His body tensed as his adrenaline spiked, ready to tackle John if he had to.

Very gently, he said, "No, John. The gun isn't the answer anymore than drinking is." He paused, trying to gauge what effect his next words were going to have on John.

"You know, Sherlock considered you his friend. He wouldn't have let you go off on that false call, unless it was to protect you from whatever was going on at St. Bart's. He – we think he purposely met… Moriarty up there. John, when we checked out the roof we found Moriarty there. He was dead; a self-inflicted gunshot to the head."

"Sherlock," John whispered. The revelation caused his head to pound. "He was already doing what I was trying to tell him. Protecting me..." He choked back a sob, remembering his last words 'friends protect people.'

Any attempt at regaining composure became impossible. He could almost hear Sherlock's voice telling him he was an idiot.

"Oh, God!" His breath caught in his throat. "Oh Sherlock…" The weight and enormity of what he had lost literally took him to his knees.

John pulled his knees up to his chest, tucking his head down and covering it with his arms, as if he was preparing for an artillery barrage. Everything crashed over him all at once and he was oblivious to everything but the pain, anguish and regret that pounded him down.

Unable to hold it in anymore, powerful sobs tore through him.

Greg sat on the floor with John, as a silent, solitary witness. His own breath caught in his throat, as he realized John was crying his friend's name over and over.

John's heart wrenching sobs stole the air from his lungs as he wept bitterly, for himself, for Sherlock. He couldn't have stopped the tears now if he wanted to. The dam had burst and he felt like he was drowning.

Greg wrapped an arm around John's shoulders, supported him and offered the comfort of his presence and his friendship. It was agonizing to see his friend so despairing and broken. He didn't know if his help would be enough for John to keep going, but he was damned if he wasn't going to try.

---

Hours later, John slowly uncurled, letting his hands drop into his lap. He leaned heavily against Greg, exhausted and empty of anything but grief. Grief so incredible, so heavy, it was hard to breathe.

There was a timid tap at the door, and Greg smiled faintly as Mrs. Hudson quietly came in and took off her coat. He was grateful she answered his call and came so quickly, without question.

She took in the scene with a glance then made a beeline for them, where they sat under the window. Greg still supported John as he leaned against his shoulder. His head hung down, a shaking hand covering his eyes.

"John." She reached her hand down and touched his shoulder gently.

He rubbed his face before looking up. When she saw the tear tracks and the unguarded pain in his eyes, she knew the walls John had put up around himself had finally broken down.

Greg rose stiffly to his feet and offered John a hand. John sat limply for a moment, but managed to find the strength to take it. He helped him up and steadied John when he staggered.

Mrs. Hudson put her arms around him in a hug and, after a moment, he raised his arms and hugged her back. She looked over his shoulder at Greg and silently mouthed the words, "Thank you."

John thought the tears were gone, but with the hug, they started again, and he was too exhausted to try to stop them. He felt how thin Mrs. Hudson had gotten in the past few months, and felt guilty, realizing she had been struggling just as badly as he was.

Greg switched on a light, then walked to the little kitchenette and started some tea, while Mrs. Hudson sat John down on his bed, and pulled up one of the chairs to sit near him.

John looked at her, the normal light in his eyes dulled with the anguish that was all too evident in his face. "I'm sorry." His voice cracked, and he paused to get it under control. "I'm so sorry that I haven't been around for you."

Mrs. Hudson smiled sadly. "I know dear. It's all right. I understand. This has been a… hard time for all of us."

Greg came over with two cups of tea. He gave one to Mrs. Hudson then held the other out for John. As John reached up to take it, he got a good look at Greg face and read the weariness and sorrow that he carried too. He realized anew that he wasn't the only one struggling with the loss of Sherlock.

It was dark outside the window now. The lamp illuminated the faces of three friends who could now start together to pick up the pieces of their lives that had fallen apart six months earlier. Nothing would ever be the same again but at least they weren't so alone.

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Please Read and Review! Next chapter should be ready to go soon!

Chapter Text

A/N: New character here - well old character, but undeveloped in the series.

Thank you for all your support so far for this story!

 

John walked swiftly through the growing dark, threading his way through the crowds. He had opted to walk, even though it was damp and getting colder. He pulled up his collar around his neck as the wind whipped between the buildings. Something, rather someone, caught his eye across the street.

He slowed down a bit to look, walked another block, crossed the street and walked back. The closer he got, the more sure he was.

"Change? Spare some change?"

People shook their heads, avoided her eyes, ignored her or pushed on by her as if she wasn't there. She was holding a cup in her hand with a few bits of change in it, shaking it once in a while as she repeated her question.

"Change, can you spare some change?"

Periodically she switched hands, tucking the other inside a pocket to warm it up. Her dark blonde hair was pulled back into a messy bun at the back of her head. She wore a large khaki army coat over her hoodie and other layers of clothes. A well worn rucksack lay on the ground by her feet.

Just seeing her took John back to Waterloo Bridge with Sherlock. He shook off the memories for the moment, and as he walked by her, she asked her question one more time.

"Can you spare some change, sir?"

He looked directly into her deep blue eyes. "What for?"

"Tea, of course."

His mouth curved in a faint smile. It was the same answer she had given before. He dug in his pocket and pulled out some bills and said, "Here, this should help. It's going to be cold tonight. Get yourself somewhere warm."

He disappeared down the road before she could say anything. She looked after him, wondering where she had seen him before. Then she looked down into her cup with astonishment. He had given her enough money for several days if she was really careful. If she could have found him… but then she wouldn't know what to say.

 

John headed back to his flat to change out of his work clothes. He washed up and as he looked into the mirror, asked himself why in the world he had given her that money. It wasn't like he had a lot himself.

As he turned from the sink, he knew deep inside it was because she was part of his Homeless Network.

He headed out the door again, his time with his trainers on. Mrs. Hudson would shake her head at him when she saw him, but he couldn't help it. He had to run.

It was something he loved to do when he was a kid. He was good at it. It was a way of escaping the atmosphere of the house. Though he was popular, he didn't have any close friends. He spent a lot of time alone. Running was something he could do alone. He liked pushing himself to his limit and then going beyond it. He liked the pounding of his feet on the ground, the need to conserve his energy, increase his stamina. It became a game to see how far he could run, and then the next time to try to beat it by just a little bit.

When he knew he wanted to be a doctor and entered medical school, running was a way he could release steam and the stress of classes, tests, papers, mid-terms and arguments with Harry. It became more than a game of testing his body to the limit; it became a way of emptying his mind and renewing himself.

Entering the army, he was already physically fit, but the training there increased his strength and distance ability. He was one of the few who, from the start, could do the long drills in full battle gear without collapsing halfway through. It stood him in good stead in Afghanistan. The running behind the lines, treating the wounded, moving ahead with his unit, he was able to tune into his body, stop thinking and do what he was trained to do.

He smiled grimly to himself as he thought of all the running he did with Sherlock. Usually running for his life or running to save someone else's. He was starting to learn to live with the huge gap in his life. He was learning how to carry the grief. It wasn't easy, but he at least was able to carry it now. Most of the time anyway.

He took up running again, at least as often as his leg would let him. The weather affected his mobility. When it was cold and wet, not only did his shoulder ache, but his leg acted up. It was compounded by the sharper psychosomatic pain depending on his emotional mindset.

On good days he could run as long as he wanted. On bad days, sometimes he could run a little bit before he had to walk. On the worst days, he still forced himself through the pain to limp down the street, sometimes leaning heavily on his cane. He didn't like using his cane at all, and avoided it at all costs, but it was necessary at times when his leg decided to give out on him.

Then there were the days he could barely move, even to get out of the bed, or off a chair. But those only happened when he was in the blackest of moods.

 

John stopped at the corner and tightened one of his trainers, thinking back to that night Greg and Mrs. Hudson had come to his flat.

He didn't know how long they stayed with him, but when he woke up, they were gone. It was mid-afternoon. He lay still for a bit, trying to gather his thoughts, when reality came crashing in. He got up, dressed and slammed out of the flat. As soon as he hit the street he started to run. When he returned exhausted, he looked around his flat, and saw it as Greg and Mrs. Hudson must have seen it. He grabbed a garbage bin and went through the flat collecting all the bottles, empty or not and threw the whole lot out.

The next day after work, he purchased a new pair of trainers, and every time the grief came crashing in, every time he wanted a drink, every time he wanted to escape, every time he had nightmares that kept him from sleeping, he hit the streets.

 

Running through the cold, all the way to Baker Street, he knocked on the door. Mrs. Hudson opened it immediately. She had been waiting for him. As he thought she would, she smiled and shook her head at him when she saw his trainers.

Offering his arm to her, John raised a hand and hailed a cab to meet Greg and Molly for their weekly dinner together.

As they ate together that night, the three of them surprised John by handing him a package.

"What's this? It's not my birthday." John looked at them quizzically.

"We know it isn't," replied Greg. "Molly pointed these out to Mrs. Hudson and me, and we thought of you immediately."

John opened the package and saw a narrow soft leather case. Taking in the slight apprehension on Molly's face, he slowly unzipped it, and saw the handle of a cane. Frowning, he pulled the whole thing out of the case and found a lightweight, collapsible cane in his hand. It had a black shaft that folded into four pieces, quick and easy to assemble. It had an adjustable height and a dark mahogany handle.

Greg cleared his throat, as John inspected it. "We remembered you telling us of the night you were running and your leg cramped up. You didn't have your cane with you, making it difficult for you to get home. We thought this might be compact enough that you could keep it on you when you're out, so you don't get stuck like that again."

"I hope you don't… I know you hate using your other cane. Please, don't be upset… I just wanted… I thought…" Molly stumbled to a halt as John caught her eyes and stood, walking around to her side of the table.

Pulling her to his feet, John folded her into a warm embrace. She relaxed and hugged him back.

Placing his hands on her shoulders, giving her a smile, but addressing all of them, John said, "Thank you. You're right, I don't like using that cane. It makes me feel so useless. However, that one was hospital issued, when I returned from Afghanistan. It reminds me of what I've lost. This one will always remind me of what I've gained."

Feeling himself choke up a bit, he dropped his hands from Molly's shoulders and returned to his seat. As he assembled the cane, familiarizing himself with it, he saw a rectangular plaque attached to the shaft, just below the handle.

His initials were engraved at the top in scrolling letters. Underneath a message was inscribed.

Dr. John H. Watson
Faithful, honorable and true.

With Love,
Molly Hooper
Mrs. Hudson
Greg Lestrade

Smiling, John traced the plaque with his thumb. He looked up at his friends, his eyes bright with tears. For the first time in a long time, they weren't ones of sorrow.

 

About a week later, John saw the girl, panhandling for change again. He knew the next few nights were going to be unseasonably cold, and they were forecasting snow. He slowed down his pace and attached himself to a crowd of people. He slipped his hand through the crowd and dropped a few bills in her cup, hoping it would hold her over for a couple of days. He continued on until he was around the corner, stopping to look back around at her.

She glanced down into her cup and John smiled slightly at her bemused look as she pocketed the money and searched for who could have dropped it in.

He moved off and started running again. Pretty soon he got into a rhythm and felt like he could have kept going for hours. For once his leg cooperated with him, for the most part. When he had pushed himself as far as he could, he circled back around to his flat and headed upstairs only limping a little, mostly from the cold.

Freshly showered, he sat on the edge of his bed with his head in his hands, wishing….

He stayed in the same position for a long time. Finally, he gave in to his physical exhaustion and lay down with his back to the room, unaware of the tears that dampened his pillow as he fell asleep.

 

John forced himself to keep going that winter. He worked, picking up more hours and longer shifts to keep himself occupied. When his emotions threatened to choke him, instead of picking up a bottle, he picked up his trainers.

Weekly, he had dinner out with Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson. They had grown quite close through the tragedy. Greg called him every few days and they got together, just the two of them, almost weekly. John grabbed a cup of coffee once in a while with Molly, let Mike Stamford drag him out to a pub every so often, and visited Mrs. Hudson, though he never went up to their old flat. He talked to his friend Bill Murray as well, though they didn't see each other often, as Bill and his family lived on the outskirts of the city.

He visited Sherlock's grave every week. Sometimes he just stood and stared at the ground, unable to think straight. Sometimes he was able to talk a little.

Other days were like today. Today, he'd needed his cane. He'd started at work without it, but walking out the door, his leg had seized up again, and he was thankful he'd carried it in his jacket pocket.

The cemetery was peaceful. Fog swirled around him, muting the sound of traffic, and a light mist fell. He ignored the damp chill in the air and walked up to tentatively touch the headstone, looking at the name engraved there. Waves of guilt, anger and grief washed over him. It felt like his heart was being torn to shreds, again. John dropped his head, supporting himself against the stone. He tried to stop it, but a sob caught in his throat.

"Oh, Sher – Sherlock. I wish… I want to wake up and find this is all a bad dream." John's breath caught in his throat as he whispered, "I need that miracle I asked for. Please…"

Another muffled sob escaped and his cane clattered against the stone, unheeded as it fell to the ground. Sherlock's name carved into the headstone blurred through his tears.

"Please. Please…"

John leaned against the stone as his legs started shaking, then slid down into a crouch. Burying his face in his hands, he felt lost as overwhelming pain caused the sobs wracking his body. Only allowing himself the luxury of a few moments, he struggled for control and concentrated on slowing his breathing.

Shakily he stood, picking his cane up off the wet grass to aid him. A trembling hand rubbed his forehead, willing away the headache that was settling behind his eyes.

"I know. I know you would want me to…" His voice trailed off and he took another shuddering breath.

"I'll try, Sherlock. I'll try to keep moving, but days like today, I wish I could follow you. But you've gone where I… I can't follow. But what I wouldn't give to hear your voice..." He stopped as the tears threatened to overtake him again.

He swallowed hard and dragged in one deep breath, then another, forcing down his emotions once again.

John straightened, ignoring the rain as it picked up and trickled down the back of his neck, inside his jacket. Then he turned and slowly walked away, the hitch in his gate more pronounced than ever. Clutching his cane in one hand, he dashed the tears away with the other. He lifted his chin and forced the stoic, military mask to fall into place.

 

That military mask was what kept him safe in public. He used it to get past the press that followed him right after Sherlock's death. He let it put distance between himself and those he ran into who speculated and asked inappropriate questions. John was very careful about what he said about Sherlock, if anything at all, in public. He learned the hard way, in a fit of anger and frustration, that the press would take anything he said and twist it to mean something completely different.

It still didn't sit right with him that Sherlock hadn't yet been cleared of blame, that people still thought of him as a fraud.

Then he started seeing spray painted signs pop up around the city, all variations of his last post on his blog. "I believe in Sherlock," and "Moriarty was real" in bright yellow spray paint, were showing up in the tube stations, walls in alleyways, anywhere there was other graffiti.

When he saw them, he realized that some people did believe. He didn't know how big the movement was getting until one day he saw someone walking ahead of him with an "I believe in Sherlock" pin on their bag.

John was grateful, and it warmed his heart a little every time he saw that brilliant yellow paint. But he still felt the real culprit was the media. That he didn't know how to fix. The press had hounded him for so long after Sherlock's death, he worked diligently to stay out of the spot light.

It wasn't too difficult to start hiding in plain sight again. He learned at home as a young boy how to fade into the background to try to avoid triggering the terrifying anger that filled his house. It didn't always work but he survived.

So John closed the comments and kept off his blog, forcing himself to step back into the shadows. It was far worse than coming back from Afghanistan, because he knew what his life could have been, if Sherlock was still alive and at his side. There would have been excitement, cases and chases mixing with quiet comfortable nights at home. He'd never imagined that life ending. Now everything felt dark and gray with very few bits of color to brighten this plodding existence he was forced into.

 

As it got closer to the year anniversary, his nightmares increased again. Somehow Afghanistan and Sherlock's death mixed together in his mind. He woke at all hours of the night, overwhelmed by terror.

One evening, having dinner with Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, his mind kept wandering and he had to force himself to focus on the conversation flowing around him. Greg finally looked at John and asked point blank how much he'd been sleeping.

John frowned and shook his head slightly, looking down at his plate, not even pretending to eat anymore. The silence stretched out around the table as the others exchanged glances. He knew that he hadn't been forthcoming about how he'd been handling getting closer to the one year mark. He felt their concerned eyes on him, and finally let out a sigh.

"Not much. I have trouble getting to sleep, and once I do the nightmares start. When I am able to wake myself out of one, it's nearly impossible to relax enough to fall asleep again."

"Oh my dear, every night?" questioned Mrs. Hudson with a worried frown.

"Not every, but almost. If I take a long run or walk before bed, it seems to exhaust me enough that I can sleep for a bit longer, and if I have a dream, it isn't as bad as some." The creases in John's forehead deepened as he looked down at his plate without seeing it.

He wasn't going to tell them how he often got up after one of those dreams, hurried down the stairs from his flat onto the street, and wandered through the city for the rest of the night. Or the nights he spent at Sherlock's grave, sitting with his back against the stone, so numb with cold in the morning he could barely get to his feet.

 

After that conversation, they started talking to John about letting his flat go and moving back into Baker Street. Greg was particularly insistent, bringing up the idea every time they saw each other or talked. He knew John was miserable in his current flat. Even Mike Stamford could see his misery and mentioned to him that he should move back "home."

John refused to entertain the idea of returning. He felt he was barely clinging on as it was. He didn't know if moving back would push him over the edge or help him. All of his friends seemed to think that he needed to go back to Baker Street, but he admitted (if only to himself) that he was afraid.

Even so, deep down he started to wonder if they were right. John didn't know if he should or if he could move back. He knew that Mrs. Hudson was pining away for "her boys" and having one back at least would comfort her. But he didn't know what walking back into Baker Street with all the memories and old ghosts of the past would do, or how he would react.

 

Greg and Molly walked to meet John outside the clinic where he worked, just as he was lacing up his shoes. They noted that though it was quite cold and foggy, he was only wearing a light jacket for running. They exchanged a concerned glace as they approached him.

John looked up as the feet of two people stopped in front of him. He had heard them coming, as aware of his surroundings as he had been as a youth and in the war.

He could see in their eyes they were on a mission. He knew he was going to be out-gunned. But he still smiled when he saw them together. He was happy for them. Molly was more confident than ever and Greg was happier than he had seen him in a long time.

Greg's wife had divorced him not to long after… Sherlock. She used his hurting career as a convenient excuse. Between the divorce and the black-balling at the Yard, Greg had gone through his own private hell. Yet he had still taken the time needed to be there when John felt like he was losing his sanity.

Molly had kept her head down and stayed out of the way during the fallout. Though she had tried to stay in touch with John it had been too painful at the beginning. Painful to see how he was trying to cope, how he was living, and painful to see him without Sherlock.

But, being in the morgue she heard things, she was quiet, mousy, and many times went unnoticed. She heard what was happening to Greg, and approached him, just to talk. As they got to know each other, Greg found he could talk to her about everything and she listened. Their friendship blossomed and they spent more and more time together. Through Greg, she reconnected with John and they renewed their friendship.

With Molly's encouragement, Greg hung in there and stuck out the suspension, then the time he was stationed at a desk. Though he still wasn't getting many cases yet, the administration was starting to put him to work again, especially since the new Superintendent started.

 

They watched John finish tightening his laces as Greg said, "Please don't start running right now. Because that means we're going to have to run to keep up, and frankly neither of us are dressed for it!"

John smiled, "Ok, where do you want to go?" Seeing Greg's look of surprise he said, "What? I can see you have something to talk to me about, so we might as well sit down somewhere warm."

After settling in at a café at the end of the street, Molly broke the silence.

"John, we're worried about Mrs. Hudson. You know she was sick earlier this month. She just doesn't seem like she is getting her strength back as quickly as she should."

John silently picked up his coffee cup and looked at her through the steam. Inwardly he sighed, because though he was wary of moving back to Baker Street, he had been worrying about Mrs. Hudson too.

Greg pitched in. "I know you don't want to, aren't sure if you can handle… being there again. We aren't trying to corner you into doing it. Mrs. Hudson will not leave Baker Street. She has made that perfectly clear to us." He squirmed a little in his seat as he remembered that conversation.

John hid a smile. He knew how those conversations could be all too well himself.

"Besides," said Molly, "I don't think you, either of you, well… any of us should be alone when, well... I just... it's going to be tough, and… yeah, ok." She stuttered to a halt.

There was a pause in the conversation, and Molly gratefully occupied herself with her food so she wouldn't have to look at anyone. Why did it always seem that she couldn't say anything right when it was really important? She felt so small for a moment, but then Greg reached for her hand under the table and gave it a squeeze. She hung onto his hand for courage and took a deep breath to try again.

"John, I don't know how to say this right. I don't want to be alone that day, and I don't think you should be either." She looked worriedly at his face as she talked, unsure of how he was taking it. His face was a blank mask.

"I don't know… I don't know what the papers will do, if they will dredge it all up again, or if they will leave us alone. Maybe that day will be fine, but the week or month will be harder. Just being around, near someone else who understands…" Her voice trailed off.

"Do you know what I mean?" Her eyes pleaded with him to get it.

Greg watched John as stared out the window. He could see something going on behind his eyes. More than that, he could see how the grief still marked his friend. The lines on his face weren't ones of laughter. Even real, honest smiles were rare now. He was thin, thinner than Greg thought he should be. He never stopped walking or running, and didn't seem to sleep or eat much either.

John sighed and turned back to his plate. He knew Greg had been watching him. He picked at his food and pushed it around before putting his fork down. He wasn't really that hungry. He looked out the window again, and something caught his eye.

He saw her again. Panhandling. He wondered how she was doing.

John gave himself a mental shake and concentrated on the present conversation. He would deal with that later.

John fiddled with his napkin, trying to figure out what to say.

"Thanks for your concern." John held up his hand, stopping them before they could speak.

"I know you are trying to help, and I appreciate it. I have been worried about Mrs. Hudson too, and have tried to talk her into going to her sister's. Yes, she probably said the very same words to me that she said to you." His face softened momentarily as he thought about her.

Then a look of determination returned.

"I am going to go out and let you have dinner together, as you were obviously planning. Considering your choice of clothes and shoes, this café wasn't your original destination. Therefore, talking about me and Mrs. Hudson clearly led you to walk out of your way to find me at the clinic."

Greg and Molly exchanged glances, realizing John had no idea how much he sounded like Sherlock.

"I am going for a run, like I planned, and will think about it again. That's all I can promise you." He sighed and said quietly, "I'm not looking forward to the next couple of months, to another year… and I honestly don't know how walking back into that flat will affect me. It's so heavy to carry sometimes, I can't stand it. But I have to keep moving. That's what walking and running does for me. Do you see? It keeps me moving. I can escape, without drinking, and still manage to keep going somehow."

"But John," Greg started.

John interrupted him, "No, Greg. I need to think about it some more. I'll talk to you tomorrow. I'll try to have a decision by the time we go out with Mrs. Hudson for dinner."

Greg leaned back in his seat, letting it go for the time being. He was thankful to know that John would seriously consider it and they might have an answer soon. He could only pray that it would be the right one.

John signaled the waiter, asking for a take away box. He boxed up his food, put on his jacket, bid them good night.

They watched him as he crossed the street and approached someone. He touched her shoulder and she turned. Greg could see it was a girl, a homeless girl. He thought she looked familiar, when he looked more closely, but he didn't know where he might have seen her before. John spoke with her for a few minutes, handed her the take away box, and then headed down the street, breaking from a walk into a jog.

Greg wondered about the interchange, but dismissed it for now, turning all his attention to Molly. She smiled at him as he reached for her hand, and leaned against him slightly as they finished their meal, quietly talking.

 

That night it took John a long time to get back to the flat from his run. When he walked in the door, he was drained. He looked around him, realizing it wouldn't take much to move out and go back to Baker Street. He hadn't made much of a personal mark on this place.

He turned on the small lamp by his bed and sat down. His stomach knotted just thinking about moving back. He sighed, wondering how he was going to be able to be in that flat again, seeing Sherlock's things.

He had been managing to survive day to day, but it was hard to live in a world that seemed to have moved on without his best friend, completely forgetting him. He didn't know what it would be like living in a flat that was dedicated to him.

John walked over to the window, looking out to the street below. The hole he managed to ignore most of the time, threatened to swallow him up again. The pain grew as he stood there. He was too tired to go out running again. There was nothing he could do to escape it. He pressed his hands against the cold glass, trying to will away the grief that was building up.

He pushed away from the window, wishing for a moment that he had some whiskey. John mentally shook himself and started blindly pacing the floor. Eventually he threw himself on the bed and stared at the ceiling. He absentmindedly rubbed his left shoulder. The damp, cold weather was causing it to ache again. He tried not to think, tried to empty his mind, but no matter what he did, he could see Sherlock in his mind's eye as he fell, see his grave stone again, and the emptiness pulled at his insides.

John rolled over and curled up around a pillow. Desperately, he hoped for the pain to ease with the tears that slipped down his face.

When sleep finally claimed him in the early morning hours, the pain bled through to his dreams, and he woke with the echo of Sherlock's name ringing through his flat.

 

Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson waited for John to arrive at the restaurant they picked to meet at. It was foggy and had started to rain late in the afternoon. They made small talk, but they each worried about how he was doing and if he would actually show up. There were a few times he had missed meeting them weekly, and when he did, it was a bit Not Good.

Just as Greg was going to try calling him again, hoping for something other than the voicemail that he'd gotten with the last call, John turned the corner across the street and limped to the café, using his cane. He came in, slipped out of his soaked jacket and hung it over the back of his chair.

Mrs. Hudson reached over to touch his arm and exclaimed, "John, you are soaked through! Why don't you ever use an umbrella? You are going to get sick!"

"Mrs. Hudson, I know I seem to have a thing against umbrellas, however it is really hard to carry one when you are moving things." He glanced across at Greg and Molly, and gave them a slight nod, then turned his attention back to Mrs. Hudson.

As John's words sank in, Mrs. Hudson's eyes lit up. "Moving things? Really, dear?" she breathed as she grabbed onto his hand. "Are you… did you… are you really coming back – home?"

John smiled kindly at her, and though his face softened as he talked with her, Molly could see that his smile never quite reached his eyes, which were red and had deep circles under them. She knew those sure signs of sleepless nights. She had many of them herself.

Greg was able to read John's condition as well, and noted that his hands were trembling as he picked up his coffee and took a sip. He knew the stress John placed on himself by moving back into Baker Street, and worried that maybe they had asked too much of him, too soon.

After their food arrived, John shared how he had found someone to take the flat, with the furnishings included. All he had to do was get his personal belongings out of the place. By the time he was done signing over the flat and getting his things to Baker Street, it was faster to walk to meet them than try to flag a cab in the bad weather.

Molly just smiled and shook her head at him as Mrs. Hudson chattered on, her mood considerably brightened, now that she knew she would have John back in Baker Street. He noticed and gave her a faint smile back.

As they neared the end of their meal, Greg leaned back from the table. He cleared his throat, suddenly nervous.

"This isn't typically how things are done. But, Molly and I, well, we wanted to share this time with you both." He smiled as he looked across the table. Mrs. Hudson looked a little confused for a moment, but he saw understanding dawn in John's eyes, almost immediately.

He reached into his pocket with one hand and reached for Molly's hand with his other. He turned all his attention to her.

"Molly Hooper. The past year has been one of the hardest, for all of us. But you have stood by me through it all. You have encouraged me, listened to me, and… well, have given me that kick I have needed sometimes. You have my heart. Will you have my hand in marriage?" He opened a small box, containing a small but beautiful engagement ring.

Molly breathed in sharply. Even though she knew Greg was going to ask her with John and Mrs. Hudson present, she hadn't known when. Her eyes misted, she looked him and a little breathlessly said, "Yes, oh yes!"

Greg slipped the ring on her finger, and then cupped her face in his hands and said, "I love you, Molly Hooper."

She blushed and reached up, covering his hands with her own, and whispered, "I love you too," her face glowing.

John grinned at Greg, truly happy for the two of them. He glanced over at Mrs. Hudson who dabbed at her eyes with a tissue, while laughing happily at this turn of events. Still smiling, he shook his head at the thought that his friends, finding each other through this tragedy, could end up being so happy together.

Greg and Molly were delighted with how their surprise had gone over. They explained they wanted a small wedding just for their family and a few friends.

John and Mrs. Hudson toasted the happy couple. The four of them spent time discussing ideas and plans for the wedding and their future. Relaxing and enjoying the celebration, even John was able to forget his sorrow for a little while.

 

A/N: If you want a better idea of who this homeless girl is, take a look at The Great Game. Sherlock approaches her under Waterloo Bridge. She does become an integral part of this story as it goes along, though you won't see that for another couple of chapters.

Next chapter should be up soon. Read and review! All comments and concrit are more than welcome! :)

 

Chapter Text

Once he was settled back into Baker Street, it took a while before John ventured into the sitting room. All the doors had been closed since he'd moved and he hadn't had the courage to open them.

Walking in and turning on the light, he saw a light coating of dust on many of the surfaces. He could tell Mrs. Hudson had been in there cleaning, but not recently. He smiled sadly at the yellow smiley face on the wall with bullet holes in it. His eyes scanned the room, taking in the scattered papers on the desk and books stacked everywhere.

As he moved towards the fireplace, he saw Sherlock's violin in its open case propped up against the wall under the window, and the music stand with the bow and music still on it. His eyes traveled from there to the emptiness that was Sherlock's chair, across the mantle with the papers stuck through with the knife, and the skull.

John sat down in his chair by the unlit fireplace, staying there for a long time. If he closed his eyes, he could imagine that Sherlock was going to bound back into the room at any moment.

His eyes kept straying back to the empty chair. He could almost hear the Sherlock playing his violin. He got up and walked over to where the violin rested, reached out and gently touched one of the strings. It sounded faintly at his touch. He smiled slightly at the sound, and gently, reverently closed and latched the case to protect it from the dust and light.

Straightening, John looked out the window at the street below, then turning back to the room, he scanned it again and knew.

He couldn't do it. There was too much of Sherlock in this room, and yet not nearly enough. His things were here, every item attached to a memory, but he wasn't. Living in this room was impossible right now. Either he was going to have to box up everything and move it out, or he would have to live with it as it was.

He didn't think he was strong enough to go though Sherlock's things. Not yet. He couldn't even sit in that room. The sliding doors to the kitchen were still closed. He walked to the other door, and before he turned out the light, he saw the arm chair next to the door with new eyes. He stepped into the kitchen to look, then back to the sitting room to get the chair.

Trying to make as little noise as possible so Mrs. Hudson wouldn't wake up, he moved the chair and a lamp into the kitchen, off to the side, up against the sliding doors. Then he drew the curtains in the sitting room, turned off the lights and closed the door firmly. He went back to the kitchen and cleaned up the dishes. When he was finished, John walked across the landing and wearily trudged up the stairs to his room.

After that night, he never entered the sitting room. The kitchen became his general, all purpose room. He read in the chair and ate and worked at the table. It was free of most of Sherlock's things as Mrs. Hudson had already boxed up his science equipment. It wasn't easy. Nor was it perfect, but it was bearable most of the time. When he couldn't take it, when his emotions rose up, he would lace up his trainers and go out.

Mrs. Hudson was alarmed at first, especially with him going out at all times of night, but then remembered that was how John was coping. She decided as long as he wasn't drinking, and was still eating, even if it was much less than he used to, she wasn't going to put up too much of a fuss.

Though she still insisted that she was his landlady not his housekeeper, she did errands for him, a bit of shopping, and made him meals. John usually came to her flat after getting home from the clinic, and they ate and visited together. Sometimes they watched a little telly together. Invariably though, after he went upstairs, he would change and she would hear him come back down the stairs, his trainers squeaking slightly on the wooden treads, and out the front door.

On the first anniversary of Sherlock's death, there was a little Italian place, slightly off the beaten path, in the theater district that the four of them decided to meet at. The cabby dropped them off at the entrance to a narrow side street and John gave his hand to Mrs. Hudson, helping her out of the cab. Just as their taxi drove away, another one pulled up with Greg and Molly in it. John smiled at them and tucking Mrs. Hudson's hand through his arm, led the way. As they reached the door, John turned to Greg and Molly and said, "You are going to love this place," as he reached out and opened the door.

A young man in a white shirt and black slacks greeted them immediately and guided them to a table in a corner of the front room. As their water was poured and fresh bread brought out for them, they could see that they weren't alone. There was a quiet buzz of conversation, and the scent of homemade Italian food made them aware of how hungry they were.

Molly said, "John, how did you find this place? It's lovely!"

He spoke quietly, "Just before I moved, on one of my runs, I happened down this little street. It wasn't a particularly good night and my leg seized up on me."

John grimaced at the recollection. "I made it around the corner of the building and rested against the wall wondering how I was going to make it back to the flat even with my cane, it was that bad. At that moment the back kitchen door opened on the alley and a man came out to throw something in the skip. He saw me and froze for a moment before realizing I was in pain. He helped me through the kitchen, to a spot in the dining room."

"His wife took one look at me and decided I needed feeding." He chuckled at the recollection. "She didn't even let me look at a menu. Between her and her husband's conversation with me, and talking with their young son, I relaxed. Eventually I looked down and realized that I had cleaned my plate."

"I have been back quite a few times since then."

Mrs. Hudson said, "Well, I am glad someone can make you finish your meal, young man."

Molly giggled at the expression on John's face as the menus came. He tried to shoot her a dark look, but couldn't help but smile back.

While everyone tried to figure out what they were going to have, John fought off the rising tide of emotions. He struggled to reconcile the idea of sitting with people who were his friends, almost his family, when his best friend wasn't right there with them. It was too "normal" and he fought the urge to get up and run.

At that moment, he felt a touch on his arm and jumped a little. He looked up to see Marco standing next to him. His silver hair glinted in the dim lighting and his hazel eyes danced with real affection. Marco beamed at John for a moment, then grabbed his hand, shaking it enthusiastically.

"John, you're back! And you brought friends with you this time! Oh, Anna is going to be so happy to see you, you have no idea!"

John introduced Marco to his friends. They were a bit taken aback at the warm welcome he had received. Greg was pleased though, to see John's tension easing slightly.

Taking in the light crowd in the restaurant, John asked, "Marco, is Anna free to come out of the kitchen? I would love a recommendation."

Marco grinned even more broadly, clapped John on the shoulder and disappeared into the kitchen.

Moments later, a spritely woman came bustling out of the kitchen, her gray streaked hair tied back in a bun, wiping her hands on a towel on her shoulder. She came straight over to John and before he could stand up, planted a kiss on each of his cheeks.

"Oh I am so glad to see you, John, my boy! It's been a bit since you've been here. We have missed you. And you brought friends with you too. This is wonderful!"

John's ears started to turn red at the effusive welcome. He cleared his throat a little. "Thank you, Anna. I'm glad to be back. But I need your help. We would love a recommendation, or better yet, could you surprise us with one of your own creations?"

Anna's face lit up with a smile. "You leave it to me, John," she said as she swept up the menus from the table.

As she left, Marco leaned in close and whispered, "You have no idea how happy you just made her. She loves to cook off the menu for people!" Then he whisked away to check on another table.

Greg leaned over and said, "Do you always get greeted this exuberantly?"

John blushed a little, giving a chuckle. "Yes, I guess so. Usually, I sit back by the kitchen with them. I think they have almost adopted me, and their son, Anthony loves to have me help him with his homework. Of course, he so bright, he hardly needs it. I think it is just an excuse to try to get me to tell him stories about the army and being a doctor."

They laughed, sat back and relaxed as their meal came out of the kitchen.

By the time they had all pushed back from the table, even John had surprised himself with how much he had been able to eat.

Marco and Anna came out of the kitchen and pulled out a couple of chairs from a nearby table to sit down with them as they finished their desserts.

Mrs. Hudson looked at Anna and exclaimed, "That was the best meal I have had in a long time. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it!"

As everyone else chimed in, John sat back and watched Anna and Marco glow with pleasure and pride. He knew it had been the right place to go on this night, after all.

At that moment, a young boy came out of a back room. He was slight and serious looking, but there was a glow of pleasure in his eyes when he saw John. He was the spitting image of Anna, with the same dark eyes, and quick smile.

As he approached the table, Marco introduced him to everyone.

John said, "Anthony, come over and let me see how your shoulder is doing."

Greg watched how carefully John handled the boy's arm as he slipped it out of his sling, checked his shoulder and its range of motion. He asked Anthony what had happened.

Anthony averted his eyes as he answered. "I hurt it, dislocated it at school."

As John helped him slip his arm back into his sling, he lifted Anthony's chin with the knuckle of his forefinger to get him to meet his eyes.

In a low voice, he said, "Remember what I said. When this heals up, I'll help you out with a few things besides your homework, all right?"

Anthony nodded shyly as John glanced at Marco and Anna.

"Now, young man," John said, purposely lightening his voice, "You keep that sling on for another week to let the muscles and tendons heal up a bit more. I will check back in with you. You be careful with it."

"Yes, sir." Marco and Anna sent him off, and as he left he called back, "Nice to meet you all. I can't wait to see you again Dr. John!" His eyes shone with hero worship, as he shot one more look at John before he turned away.

After Anthony disappeared through the back door, Anna leaned over and squeezed John's hand.

"Thank you, John, for all you do for Anthony, and for taking such good care of him. He really likes you, and now he does nothing but talk about becoming a doctor like you. I appreciate your willingness to help him with the other areas as well." She smiled at him and then got up, heading back to the kitchen to finish up her work.

Marco stayed with them a bit longer, settling his stocky form in his chair and pulling it in closer. In answer to the wordless question he could see in Greg's eyes, Marco said, "Bullies at school. They have been making it so bad for him that he is sometimes afraid to go. We have kept him home, until his shoulder heals up, and he's been doing his school work here."

John smiled, "By the time I teach him just a couple of things, he won't have anything to worry about. Except maybe a call from the school office. But then I think they might finally pay attention."

Marco smiled back, but it faded as he spoke again.

"I know why you are all here." He looked them each in the eyes. "I know what day it is. If no one else in this city remembers, I do. So does Anna. We met him, Sherlock Holmes, one time.

Greg rocked back in his chair, Molly grabbed his hand tightly and Mrs. Hudson gave a little gasp. Greg heard John take a shaky breath and hold it for a moment before letting it out. He risked a glance at him, and saw his face blanch at his friend's name, his blue eyes bright with tears that he wouldn't let fall.

Marco saw John's expression as well, and didn't hesitate to reach out a hand and rest it on his shoulder as he continued to talk.

"It was out near my Mama's house. Mama, Anna and I had been out shopping, we were almost home when we heard rapid steps behind us. I glanced over my shoulder to see a couple of men running towards us. Suddenly someone jumped out of the alley between us and those men. The next thing I knew, the one was on the ground, and not moving. The other took off down the street, but didn't get far before someone else came out and tackled him." Smiling, he said, "That must have been you, John."

"I tried to thank the first man, but he turned and said 'It is of no consequence, you happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.' Then just as quickly as he came, he turned, his black coat swirling around him. He caught up with the other man… you… and disappeared down the street."

"I recognized him from the papers, and followed all that happened. And I remember the date."

"He was a good man, Sherlock Holmes. I don't believe the papers, I don't care what they say," Marco stated. "He was a good man," he repeated.

Marco looked at John, gently squeezing his shoulder. "You are a good man too, John. I recognized you the first night we met, but it wasn't the time or place to say anything. But today, well, today I had to. It is an honor to serve you and your friends in memory of him."

He stood up and said, "I hope you know you are always welcome here." With that, Marco gave a little bow, turned and walked back to the kitchen, leaving a stunned silence in his wake.

A week later, John got a call on his way to work.

"Greg," he answered.

"John. What are you doing today?" Greg sounded a bit out of breath.

"Heading to work, right now," John replied as he rounded a corner.

"Will you be home in time for the evening news?" Greg asked.

"Yes, but I really don't pay attention to the news, or newspapers, anymore," he answered, a hint of bitterness in his voice.

Greg sighed through the phone. "I know, John, I understand. But this is important. Can you catch the news tonight? Not at work. At home."

John slowed his pace, frowning at Greg's tone of voice. "What is it, Greg? What's happened?"

"More than I can tell you right now, mate. You'd never believe me if I told you. I just got the heads up from someone that there is an important press release, set in time for the evening news." Greg's voice got a bit muffed, as the background noise increased and his hand cupped around his phone. "I shouldn't even be telling you this much, but I needed to make sure you knew ahead of time."

"Greg…"

"I'm sorry, mate. I've got to go, or the Chief Super is going to have a fit. Just… just watch it, and as soon as I can, I'll give you a call, if I can't break away to come over."

John sighed, even as his anxiety level increased. "All right. I'll get home to watch it. Do you want me to make sure Mrs. Hudson sees it too?"

"Yes, please, John."

"Ok. I'll talk to you soon." John pocketed his mobile as he approached his clinic.

"Hello, Dr. Watson," smiled the receptionist.

"Good morning, Elisabeth."

"We have a pretty full schedule today," she said apologetically.

John smiled in understanding. "Give me five minutes and I will be ready to start."

Elisabeth waved her acknowledgement as she picked up the ringing phone.

John pushed his conversation with Greg to the back of his mind for the time being. Settling himself in his office, he started up the computer at his desk. Buzzing Elisabeth, he let her know he was ready for his first patient.

The day passed quickly. Many of his patients were struggling through the same flu that was spreading all over the city. There wasn't much he could do except prescribe fluids, rest and fever reducers. He was working on the necessary paper work at the end of the day when there was a tap at his door.

"Come in," John called, as he leaned back in his chair, stretching his legs out under the desk.

Dr. Ashwell popped his head in around the door.

"Dr. Watson, you're free to go now. The lobby is empty. Better get going while you can, young man!" His brown eyes twinkled merrily at John as he stepped further into his office.

John stretched again, and smiled back as he stood. "I appreciate you letting me know."

He glanced at the clock. "I do need to be getting home."

Dr. Ashwell grinned at John. "Oh, a date then tonight!"

"No sir, just a friend asking me to do him a favor. I promised him I would, and I need to help my landlady with something." John figured stretching the truth wouldn't hurt. Greg did ask him to watch the news, and to tell Mrs. Hudson. Both could be considered a favor and doing something for her.

"Then off you go, Dr. Watson. Have a good night. I'll see you in a couple of days." Dr. Ashwell's gray hair glinted in the overhead lights as he turned and walked out the door.

John smiled after the doctor as he walked down the hall. The sound of his voice, as he spoke with a nurse, blended together with the tap of his cane as he moved away.

As John left the clinic, heading for Baker Street, he knew he was lucky that Stamford had spoken up for him when he applied here. Dr. Ashwell ran a tight ship, but he was fair and kind. He cared for his staff like family, and had shown John great compassion and patience in the last year, along with some firm guidance when he'd needed it.

The closer John got to Baker Street, the more concerned he became about Greg's call that morning. Opening the door, he called out to Mrs. Hudson to let her know he was home.

"Oh hello, dear. Are you hungry?" she asked, as she popped out of the door of her flat.

"No, thank you Mrs. Hudson. It's just been a long day and I want to put up my feet for a bit. But, Greg called me and asked me to let you know that there is something we will want to see on the evening news."

"What is it?" Mrs. Hudson asked, worried.

John shook his head. "I have no idea. Greg just called me on my way to work this morning and asked if I would be able to watch it. He couldn't tell me anything about it at the time."

"All right, dear. I'll go turn it on then. If you need anything, just give a call." Mrs. Hudson gave him a hug and a swift peck on the cheek, before bustling back into her flat.

As John climbed the stairs, he heard a quiet drone as Mrs. Hudson turned on her TV. He smiled slightly, and stepped through the door of the kitchen, flipping on the lights.

He turned and switched on his TV that perched on the small table attached to the wall near the door to the landing. Making sure it was on the right channel, he grabbed the kettle and filled it with water, starting it to boil for some tea.

Hanging up his jacket on the rack on the landing, he passed back through the kitchen, pouring the now boiling water over the tea bag waiting in his mug. Settling into the arm chair in the corner, he waited for the news cast, wondering what Greg could have been talking about.

Twenty minutes later, John sat staring at the blank TV screen. He jumped as his phone rang. Swiping it off the table, he was about to answer it, thinking it was Greg. Glancing at it, he realized it was a number he didn't know.

Preparing himself for anything, he answered.

"John Watson."

"Dr. Watson, this is Sergeant Donovon. I need to see you, if you would be willing to meet with me for a few moments. I promise I won't take much of your time."

John clenched his jaw and tightened his grip on his phone. But, remembering what he'd seen on the news, he forced himself to respond civilly.

"You may come. But I don't have long."

Sergeant Donovan gave a quiet sigh of relief. "I am only a couple blocks away from Baker Street. I will see you shortly."

John hung up without responding, and stood for a moment in the middle of the kitchen at somewhat of a loss.

Thinking ahead, he went downstairs to be ready to answer the door. He didn't want Mrs. Hudson taking a broom to Sally's head, as amusing as it might be.

Sally arrived, bringing a small briefcase with her through the door as John held it for her. John preceded her up the stairs, pausing on the landing, motioning her into the kitchen.

He felt grim satisfaction as Sally's eyes widened slightly, realizing this was the only part of the flat John was using. He moved past her, picking up his mug of tea, and sat at the table. Gesturing to the other chair, he asked her what she wanted.

She sat down, swallowed hard and then asked, "Did you see the press conference?"

At his nod, she sighed, relieved she didn't need to go into that. "Then I'll try to keep this as brief as I can. But you, of all people, deserve to know the background."

John nodded wearily for her to continue, not trusting his voice.

"Anderson and I started going back over some of the earlier cases that Holmes solved. Neither of us knew what the other was doing. He worked through all the forensic evidence and I poured over all the case notes. When we realized that we were working on the same thing, we started combining our resources and working on the same cases at the same time."

John had been looking at his hands clasped around his mug, but looked up when she paused.

Donovan met his eyes for a brief moment, before she looked down at the stained, acid marked table top.

She took a deep breath and continued.

"Anderson and I realized that if we kept finding the same things, no one was going to believe us."

John snorted.

Sally's shoulders tensed, but she knew she deserved every bit of John's anger.

"You know what I mean." She sighed. "We are a part of Lestrade's team. If we were going to be believed, we had to have others back it up, who weren't around when Sherlock Holmes was, or who at least weren't on Lestrade's team."

"We… we also starting finding that some key pieces of information started going missing."

"Missing? What do you mean?" asked John, becoming interested, despite himself.

"Cases we'd looked at already. We'd go back to find something, to confirm for another case, or to double check, and it wouldn't be there. But we knew it had been when we'd first looked at it."

"We pulled in Hopkins, a forensic examiner who Anderson had heard stridently defending Holmes in a break room. I also found Bradstreet, a new detective hired about two months before… umm…" Sally's voice trailed off. To hide her hands, that had inexplicably started to shake, she started digging in the briefcase she had in her lap.

"We started checking out the cases, as quickly as the four of us could, scanned in every photo, report and bit of evidence we could that wasn't already an electronic file, and backed it all up in multiple places. We went to Lestrade, after work, and asked him when he started working with Holmes. We started pulling all the cases from the beginning, before their information could start disappearing."

She pulled an external hard drive out of the briefcase, and laid it in the middle of the table, between her and John.

"This is everything. All the cases. All the evidence. All the write-ups. All our research and cross checking. All the witnesses testimonies. It's all there." She paused and then said, "There are even some digital recordings of his deductions that Lestrade started taking, because he couldn't keep up with the facts that he spewed out so fast."

"We have other places it's backed up as well, but now that we've been able to make it public, I don't think any more evidence will disappear. We were never able to trace who was getting into the files and taking away crucial things. But it was someone who knew what they were doing. They knew what bits to pull that would make it look like Holmes had planted things, rather than solved them."

Sally smiled grimly. "Unfortunately for them, they didn't know how far we were and what cases we had pulled, so they were well behind us. By the time we started putting together the first report for the new Chief Superintendant, they stopped, realizing if they kept it up, we were going to find them."

Still looking at her hands, she spoke again, her voice so low, John had to strain to hear her in the quiet of the flat.

"I know it's too late. I know I shouldn't even be here – that you don't want me here. It should have been you on the news tonight, not me. But, I'm sorry. I honestly thought… I mean, when that girl screamed… then I looked at the photos of the crime scene… and I just couldn't put together how in the world anyone could have put that all together so quickly. I thought he HAD to have set it up."

"Then I looked at everything again. After… after it was too late. It took me a long time. Far too long. But then I saw the connections he had made."

"I know it was too little, too late, but the least I could do, the least we could do, was to try to clear his name…. and prove that Richard Brooke was a fake and that Moriarty was real. His little story fell apart far faster than it took for us to accumulate enough to prove Holmes' innocence."

Reaching across the table, she pushed the external hard drive closer to John. "We…. We want you to have this; all the files and everything. So many of these were before you were here, before you became… his friend."

If John hadn't been so shell-shocked by the events of the evening, he would have sworn there were tears in Sally's eyes.

"There are so many more, when you worked together, that he solved, that you never wrote about… I don't know that you will ever want to…. But, now you have everything you need. If you ever want to write again, that is. About him."

John shook his head mutely, but pulled the hard drive closer to him, with trembling fingers.

Sally stood, hesitating. She looked down at the floor for a moment.

Taking a deep breath, she looked up at John and said, "I'm sorry. I know it's too late. But I'm sorry for what I did, for what happened, for – for everything… I'll – I'll let myself out. Thank you for letting me see you."

She walked out the kitchen door. She turned on the landing, one last time, her hand on the railing, looking around at that flat that used to be home to Sherlock Holmes. Her eyes came to rest on John, sitting in the dim light, clutching the hard drive in his hands, as tears started to stream down his face.

Sally realized once and for all that Sherlock Holmes hadn't just taken his own life the day he jumped. He'd crippled his friend's as well.

As she started down the stairs, she whispered the words she'd finished the press conference with.

"I believe in Sherlock Holmes."

After Sally left, John sat for a long time in a daze, not noticing how hard he was clutching the external hard drive, or the tears streaking his cheeks.

He'd been stunned as he'd seen the press conference. Donovan had read her prepared statement then opened it up to questions from the press, backed up by a quiet Anderson. Hopkins and Bradstreet sat next to them, and Donovan directed most of the questions to them, rather than answer them herself.

It was a smart move, as she and Anderson had been so closely associated with Lestrade, who had worked with Sherlock the most.

They revealed all the evidence they had proving Richard Brook was a fake just to discredit Sherlock. They shared finding Moriarty on the roof, having killed himself. They released detailed descriptions of the majority of Sherlock's solved cases to all the major press outlets at the same time, to prove that he really had solved all those cases.

John was shocked that it had been Donovan and Anderson of all people who had started digging to prove Sherlock innocent rather than guilty.

He was relieved that Sherlock's name was finally cleared, but the memories that were dredged up caused him so much pain that he knew he wasn't going to be able to look at the files on that hard drive for a while. John sat for a long time, ignoring his phone when it chimed to alert him of an incoming text. He didn't even hear it ring or the beep signaling a new voicemail. He sat and allowed himself to get lost in his memories.

When Greg was finally broke free from the madhouse at the Yard, he found reporters already camped out on the steps in front of Baker Street. After scattering them with the threat of arrest for harassment, he let himself in. Walking in, he didn't see a light shining through the window of Mrs. Hudson's door, so he knew she was already in bed.

Looking up the stairs, he could see a faint glow, so he headed up quietly to check on John.

Reaching the upstairs landing, Greg quietly called, "John. John?"

Peering through the kitchen door, his heart sank.

John was slumped over the table, a cold cup of tea at his elbow. His face was still damp from the occasional tears that still stole down his face even in his sleep. Greg saw John's hands were tightly wrapped around the hard drive that Donovan had planned to give him. That John had it was a sign that he, at the very least, had let her in for a moment.

"Oh, John," he whispered as he walked around the table. Laying a hand on John's shoulder, he roused him enough to get him upstairs to his room. Greg pulled back the duvet and sheets, sat John on the edge of the bed and unlaced his shoes. John made no effort to help him, but didn't resist either. He meekly obeyed Greg when he told him to lay down.

Greg pulled the covers over his friend. The only thing John refused to do was put down the hard drive. Greg didn't force it. He sighed tiredly and moved to the door, shutting off the light, when John spoke for the first time.

"Greg, could you… would you… stay. Just for a little while? I don't want to… be alone right now." John's voice was little more than a whisper, punctuated by a soft gasp as he tried to control his emotions.

Greg couldn't see much in the dim light from the hall, but walked back into the room, turning on the small lamp on John's desk. John's eyes were closed, but fresh tears were falling as he clenched his jaw, waiting for Greg's response.

John's shoulders visibly relaxed when he heard Greg grab his battered desk chair and drag it over next to his bed.

"Of course, mate. As long as you need." As Greg settled in the chair, John extended the hand that wasn't holding the hard drive out from under the covers. Greg reached out to take it, and John gave it a squeeze, whispering, "Thank you."

John let go of Greg's hand as he curled into a ball and fought the tears and fatigue that finally dragged him into a deep sleep.

Greg ran a hand through his gray hair, toed off his shoes and leaned back in the hard chair, resting his feet on the edge of the bed. Turning off the light, he kept watch through the night. Thankfully John was so exhausted from the day, that he didn't have any apparent dreams. His compact form stayed huddled under the covers, unmoving. Eventually Greg dozed off for a couple of hours, waking up stiff and sore.

"I'm too old to do this anymore," he muttered to himself, as he stretched when he heard faint noises drifting up the stairwell from Mrs. Hudson's apartment.

Getting to his feet, Greg quietly closed the curtains to block out the light so John could sleep as long as possible. He slipped out of the room carrying his shoes, looking back at his slumbering friend one last time before he headed down the stairs.

He checked in with Mrs. Hudson and had a short breakfast with her. Satisfied that everyone in Baker Street was as well as they could be under the circumstances, Greg left, calling Molly to let her know he was on his way home.

He slid into his car, thinking about the past year. No one would be able to convince him that he and Molly, John and Mrs. Hudson weren't a family, not after all they'd gone through together. He nodded and waved at two people who took up positions across the street from 221B, seemingly to set to panhandle. Greg knew they were really there to keep an eye on things. He smiled as another thought occurred to him. They were a family with some unexpected extended members among the Homeless Network. An unlikely one, but family nonetheless.

A/N: To be continued... Please Read and Review! Hope you enjoyed.  :-)

 

Chapter Text

As John headed home from the clinic, he breathed a sigh of relief. It had been a long day, and though it was midsummer, it was a cool one this year. It seemed like the cold and flu season had never ended.

John walked as quickly as his leg would let him, hoping it stretched out and started feeling better. It had been raining for nearly a week, and John was glad to see clear skies. Besides, the cold and damp aggravated his leg even more. He had felt trapped and smothered as the low clouds dropped rain that soaked the city.

John walked into his room and flopped onto his bed, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes, just resting and resetting his mind. He changed out of his work clothes and pulled on his trainers. Before he left, he double checked his gun was loaded and had a full clip. Then he tucked it back into his jacket pocket.

He never left the flat without his gun now. He had been jumped once without it, and though he had been able to defend himself, his weak leg was a liability. He wasn't going to be caught unprepared again.

Once outside, he stretched again before getting going. He could tell that he wouldn't be running for long tonight.

John stopped thinking and concentrated on running, getting into a rhythm for a little while until his leg started protesting too much and he couldn't push through it any longer. He slowed to a walk and caught his breath. He wandered for a while, without any particular destination in mind.

The sound of coins rattling in a cup carried above the noise of the city around him. He smiled faintly and headed in the direction of the sound. As he got closer he could hear her voice as she panhandled for change.

oOOooOOooOOo

John walked up and leaned against the low wall next to her. She glanced over at him and gave him a smile, while searching his face to see how he was.

"That good today, eh?" she asked, though she didn't need to.

"I've had better," John replied. "How have things been for you the past few days, Phoebe?"

"Wet," she stated bluntly.

John smiled a little and she was gratified to hear him even give a little chuckle.

Phoebe thought back to the time she first met John.

oOOooOOooOOo

It wasn't the first time they had really met, but it was the first time she was able to catch the person who had been dropping larger quantities of money into her cup. She realized she had been seeing this one man walking the streets quite frequently in her area. On the nights the weather was particularly fierce, she would catch a glimpse of his black jacket and sandy blonde hair, or a hand with a watch she recognized.

John tried to stay hidden, but the crowd thinned just as it passed her and she saw him. She reached out and grabbed his wrist and didn't let go until she had pulled him off the main street. He stood looking, shamefaced, at his shoes for a moment.

"Why?"

"Why, what?" he asked.

She held out the money he had tried to drop in her cup.

His face colored a bit as he said, "I wanted to help, at least in the bad weather, when I could, when I had extra and I….. I recognized you…" His voice faded away.

She looked at him for a bit, deciding not to ask where he recognized her from. She just shook her head and tried to hand the money back to him.

He backed away. "No. It's yours. If you don't want it, give it to someone else who can use it." He turned and quickly walked down the street, almost breaking into a run before she called after him.

"Wait!"

He paused, not looking back at her.

"I – thank you. You don't have to keep on…"

The man turned, giving her a look she couldn't decipher. "Yes, I do."

He turned, started running and disappeared around the corner.

 oOOooOOooOOo

He continued to show up on and off during the bad weather. He didn't hide in the crowds anymore though. From time to time, she was able to engage him in conversation. She learned he was a doctor. He learned she had been on the street for nearly four years.

One very bitter day, she stopped him as he was ready to drop something into her cup. Looking at him closely, because she wasn't sure how he was going to react, she laid her hand lightly on the sleeve of his jacket.

"You were his friend weren't you?"

He froze. He regarded her impassively, only his eyes betraying a slight flicker of emotion, his mask perfectly in place. She recognized the defensiveness immediately.

"I think I remember you. He came to me, under Waterloo Bridge, with a note for the Homeless Network to look for someone. You were with him. You were there too, when I returned to Baker Street with the answer he was looking for. You were his friend."

He gave a curt nod.

"I thought so," she said, though she didn't need the confirmation of his nod. "My name is Phoebe." She held out her hand to him.

He looked at her, her hand, then back at her face. Finally he shook her hand and said, "John. Doctor John Watson."

"Dr. Watson," she paused, as she saw the wariness in his eyes grow. "I am grateful for the extra help you have been willing to offer on bad days. However, I know of at least one other person who needs it more tonight. She won't take anything from me. But, if it could be dropped into her tin when a crowd goes by…."

John's face lightened, as his frown faded slightly.

"You don't have to, but I don't know how to get her help otherwise."

"It won't be used for drugs or alcohol?" he asked.

Phoebe shook her head, "I know her. She's part of the Homeless Network. Anyone who wants to become part of his Homeless Network has to stay clean. She just needs enough to get into a shelter for a couple of nights and some food. She's starting to get sick and needs to get out of this weather."

John nodded and simply said, "Where."

Phoebe gave him the address of the block she was on, and he turned to go on his way.

"Wait! You forgot this." Phoebe was holding out the money he had given her.

Before he disappeared down the street, he called back over his shoulder, "I know!"

oOOooOOooOOo

Phoebe jolted out of her thoughts when she realized John had asked her a question. He was watching her closely with concern, and a bit of amusement.

She shook her head a bit. "Sorry, I was a million miles away. I'm fine. Really."

John looked at her, narrowing his eyes for a moment, before sighing. "You're not sick too, are you?"

"No, not me Dr. Wa…. John."

John snorted back a laugh. She was one of the few of the Homeless Network he could convince to use his first name, and only when they were alone. Otherwise it was always Dr. Watson, though now some were starting to compromise and call him Dr. John.

Phoebe grinned at her slip up, and that she'd gotten him to laugh again, and gave his arm a friendly bump with her elbow.

There was a comfortable silence as a few people moved past them before she said, "You wanna walk a bit?" She noticed his left hand was shaking slightly, and he was favoring his leg again. Definitely not a good day.

"I need to move if you don't mind. I have been cooped up all week and knew I had to get out tonight, rain or no. I couldn't breathe."

"Right then." Phoebe stowed her cup away in her pack, picked it up, slinging it across her shoulder. They set off down the road together in silence for a while. Eventually they came to the river. There they paused, finding a spot to sit on a park bench.

John sat with a muffled sigh, rubbing his sore leg with his hand. Realizing Phoebe had seen, he sat back wearily rubbing his face, then rested his hands back on his lap as he looked at the river.

Phoebe could tell she needed to get him out of his dark thoughts. She didn't know what they were, but it didn't matter. She needed to distract him.

"My mother used to take my brother and me to this park when we were kids. We loved to watch the boat traffic on the river. It was fun to watch the people walking by, wondering where they were going or what they were doing."

"She was from Italy. Married Father and came to live here. Sometimes I walk by Italian restaurants just to get a whiff of the cooking. I haven't found one yet that smells quite like Mama's, but it still reminds me of home."

John was surprised when she started talking about her past. He never asked her where she came from, and she volunteered very little. There wasn't much trust on the streets, and he knew people didn't share their stories easily.

"What happened, I mean… how…" John stopped not sure how to say what he wanted, without sounding too nosey or pushing her away.

Phoebe understood, as she always seemed to be able to.

"Mama died when I was at the University. She'd had some family money, and put it in a trust for me. My Father was an alcoholic, and my brother was already following the same path, adding a gambling addiction to it."

"Long story short, once I graduated and started working as a nurse, my brother cost me several jobs by bursting in drunk or high, demanding money. I'd had enough and was packing my things at my flat, preparing to move when he forced his way in. By the time I finally got him out of there, pacifying him with what money I had on hand, I'd made my decision. I went to my lawyer and had him put a freeze on the trust fund until I came back to see him. I emptied my bank account and closed it. I bought a lot of the clothes you see here, took the middle name of Mama's grandmother and got lost among the homeless."

She took a deep breath. "It was the only way to escape him. He's smart enough to know how to trace me, and I couldn't take the chance. He was getting too violent, and I was afraid the next time…"

"Did he hurt you?" John interrupted.

"He knocked me around a bit, but I knew it would be worse the next time. I knew he'd never stop."

Phoebe continued to stare out across the river, then said "I've been out here four years now."

"Will you ever go back? I mean, get off the streets, go back to nursing?" John asked, quietly.

"I don't know," she replied. "It depends on if I'm ever safe from my brother."

After a few minutes of silence, she turned to John. "Something happened today, or last night." she stated.

John blinked. For a moment she'd sounded like…

"What is it? What happened?" Phoebe asked before looking away again.

John saw a hint of defensiveness in the set of her shoulders, and the carefully blank mask on her face. She's afraid that she pushed too much.

John debated telling her what had happened the night before. He knew he needed to talk to someone, and he wasn't ready to talk to Greg yet. Of course, as soon as Greg saw him, he would know something happened. He wasn't as blind as he always had claimed.

He hardly knew what to think about this turn of events.

John leaned forward a bit, resting his forearms on his knees.

"Yesterday," he started, "Sherlock's older brother came to see me. He met me outside of the clinic, after work. I hadn't seen him since about three months after…"

He shook his head. "I think that may have been because I was so angry at him at the time, I could have torn him apart with my bare hands."

Phoebe had turned towards him on the bench, tucking one leg under her.

"I think he was still a bit wary of me. I wasn't sure I wanted to talk to him, but I could tell that my anger at him had ebbed."

oOOooOOooOOo

He grumbled to himself as he walked out of the clinic and saw the sleek car. Knowing it wouldn't do him any good to avoid it, he walked over and stepped through the door being held open for him. He settled into the seat across from Mycroft as the car moved out into the traffic. He stayed silent, waiting for Mycroft to make the first move.

Mycroft reached into his inside breast pocket of his coat, removing a thick envelope.

He cleared his throat and said, "At the time, John, you weren't – able – to be at the reading of Sherlock's will. But you are included in it, and I have been waiting to inform you." The corners of his lips quirked slightly. "Until I could be reasonably certain I wasn't going to make acquaintance with your left hook. I am told it is quite formidable," he finished dryly.

John huffed a quiet laugh, in spite of himself.

"I will let you read through it all, but suffice it to say, Sherlock left everything to you. His possessions, his considerable portion of our inheritance, everything."

John's jaw dropped. He sat stunned as Mycroft continued.

"He also made arrangements that the rent at Baker Street would be paid, in full to Mrs. Hudson until her death, at which point the entire property would be turned over to you. It was an agreement that he and Mrs. Hudson made long ago. He paid her rent, and when she died the house would be deeded to him. He made sure that it would go to you if he was no longer around."

Well, that explains my rent mysteriously appearing back in my account each month, John thought wryly.

"There is a personal letter in there as well, that was to be given to you at the reading. It is unopened, I assure you," he added, when John looked at him with narrowed eyes.

"I am… sorry, John. I should have tried to deliver the letter sooner, but I was concerned that my giving it to you would cause you to not accept it. It was one of Sherlock's last requests to me, to make sure you got that letter and read it. I had to wait until I thought you would – accept – my presence."

John held the legal envelope in one hand, and looked down at the other, addressed to him in Sherlock's distinctive hand. He felt the car slow and pull up to the edge of the street. He looked up at Mycroft as he addressed him again.

"John, I hope… I trust, if you have any questions, you won't hesitate to consult me. The car is at your disposal, for as long as you would like it tonight. I shall leave you alone now," he said, nodding at the envelopes in John's hands.

The door opened and Mycroft stepped out onto the sidewalk. There was a slight pause. He called back through the door, "Just tap on the glass and the driver will open it, to receive directions. There are no listening devices, I assure you. I assumed you would want privacy."

The door closed, and the car idled at the curb until John tapped the divider. When it opened, he asked the driver to just drive around the town. He nodded without comment and closed the divider again.

After a few moments, he set aside the legal papers, and with trembling fingers, opened the letter from Sherlock.

After reading the letter from his best friend, twice, he tapped on the divider again. There was only one place he wanted to go.

The car slowed to a stop. John tucked the papers and the letter deep into an inner pocket of his jacket and opened the door. He stepped out and told the driver he could go as he turned to walk into the graveyard. He didn't look behind to see that the car stayed where it was, the driver keeping an eye on him through the window as he called to let his superior know where they were.

oOOooOOooOOo

Phoebe looked at John with wide eyes. She didn't need him to verbalize how important this letter from Sherlock had to be. She could see it in his eyes. She wanted to ask what was in the letter, but she didn't dare. She waited, because she could see he had more to say.

"Phoebe, if you were to be able to name the top thing the Homeless Network needs the most, what would it be? I mean, if they had to, or wanted to continue to live on the streets. I know that food and shelter are in that top three, but what else?"

Phoebe could see that John was really serious.

She thought back through the last six months or so. Several things occurred to her, but she discarded them and thought more deeply.

John could see that she was thinking, but trying to be realistic.

"If there were no monetary limits… and there were a way to work it out so that the Homeless Network would feel comfortable, on their own terms…. Well, what about some sort of medical care?" John asked, hesitantly.

"How? Where?" Phoebe asked, completely surprised.

"What if there were medical services, with both a doctor and a nurse, in one of the shelters? Do you think people would use it?" John stood up and started pacing in front of the bench as he thought out loud.

"We wouldn't be able to offer advanced services. But we could treat simple broken bones, stitch up cuts, give antibiotics for infections, treat cold and the flu, and if we had enough volunteers we could maybe run a clinic every weekend, especially in the winter. Then you wouldn't have to go anywhere, but to a shelter that you normally would."

"John," Phoebe said, "Do you really mean it? Is this just a dream, or something that you really think could happen?"

John turned to look at her, "Would it be something you think the Homeless Network would be interested in?"

Wordlessly, Phoebe nodded, her eyes wide at the thought. John's lips quirked in a brief smile, acknowledging her answer, and then he turned back, looking out over the river.

oOOooOOooOOo

The next few months flew by. John had a new purpose. He had a reason to get up. In his letter, one of the things Sherlock had asked him was to take care of his Network, and to keep an eye on Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson. Though he still felt empty inside, he was going to do his best to honor Sherlock's wishes.

John called Mycroft, setting up a meeting with him and his lawyer. They went over the particulars of Sherlock's inheritance and how it could be used by John. They started laying the ground work for some sort of medical care to be provided at a homeless shelter.

John talked to Dr. Ashwell, the head of the clinic he worked at, and Mike Stamford to see if he and his clinic would be interested in partnering with them. As several more doctors and nurses agreed they would like to help, things started to fall into place. John spoke with the directors of one of the shelters nearby. When they realized he was serious, they were cautious, but willing.

John set up a meeting, making arrangements with Angelo to reserve a meeting space. When he arrived at Angelo's ahead of the meeting time, he saw that Angelo had set them up, right in the front of the restaurant where there was room to string several tables together.

"Angelo, you didn't need to set us up right in the middle of the room like this!" John exclaimed.

"John," Angelo shook his hand as he continued to speak. "I don't normally open up on Tuesday's, but I would do anything to help out a friend, and why would I put you in the back when you will be the only ones here?"

"Thank you," John smiled as he sat down at one end of the table. He dug through his bag, pulling out his laptop and a file folder. "I just need to do a bit of work before the others come."

Angelo smiled and nodded, disappearing into the kitchen.

After working for a while, John leaned back and stretched. He wondered if Phoebe was going to show up. He'd asked her to come. He remembered her surprise, but when he explained that she knew the Homeless Network better than any of them, he could see she began to seriously think about it. He told her where and when, and that there was no pressure.

As he rubbed his face with his hands, he saw a familiar figure hovering on the edge of the sidewalk across the street. He watched for a moment, before standing and grabbing his jacket. He called to Angelo that he'd be right back.

Stepping out and crossing the street, he walked up to Phoebe.

"Hi there."

"Hi, Dr. John," she said with a tentative smile.

She'd made an effort with the resources she had, to clean up as much as possible. Her light brown hair was brushed and wrapped in a neat twist at the nape of her neck. She wore her cleanest clothes under her army jacket, and had her rucksack at her feet. She stood, nervously twisting her hands together.

"Phoebe, how about you come in with me and get out of the cold. If you aren't comfortable, or it gets to be too much, feel free to leave. You can even leave your things with me, if you need to get out fast, and I will find you at the Bridge when I'm done with the meeting."

Phoebe looked at him and saw he was completely serious, and that he understood her anxiety.

She nodded once, then picked up her bag and crossed the street with him.

Angelo was just walking out of the kitchen as they came back in. Phoebe paused in the doorway, uncertain of her welcome.

"Ah, you must be Phoebe! I am very glad to meet you. John has spoken about you often. Come in, come in! Sit wherever you like. I will be right back with water for the table." He flashed a brilliant smile, and disappeared into the back.

John watched as some of the tension eased out of her at the warm welcome. John gestured to the seat he had claimed at the head of the table.

"That's where I was planning on sitting, but if you would be more comfortable, we can sit on the end closest to the door, assuming you want to sit next to me," he said with a smile.

"Oh no, this is just fine." She walked around the table to sit in the corner seat next to John, facing the windows and door, so she could see when people came.

John smiled at her reassuringly as he stayed standing to greet Mycroft and his lawyer as they walked in.

Slowly the table filled and Angelo took everyone's orders. John let the conversation drift, as people made small talk and got to know everyone. Once the food arrived, John started sharing his ideas about how this all could work.

By the end of the meal, they had it sorted that the two clinics, working together would staff a medical clinic at the one shelter every Saturday mid-day, with the hours adjusting as needed.

As the evening grew later, those with families, and the directors of the shelter, who needed to be up early, left the group. In the end, Mycroft and his lawyer, John, Phoebe, Dr. Ashwell and Mike Stamford sat were left sitting around the tables, discussing the details.

"What about medical supplies?" asked Mike. "I know the clinics aren't going to be able to afford to just give them away. At least not in the volumes I think we might need."

John nodded. "I had thought about that some, already. Dr. Ashwell, do you think we could get what we need directly from our medical supplier?"

Dr. Ashwell leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin with one hand. Looking at John, he said, "I think we could work something out. It always looks good to the community when they see the medical field donating time and supplies."

"What types of supplies, John?" Mycroft asked.

"Basic suture kits, plasters and bandages, finger splints, wraps for sprained wrists and ankles, ice packs, things like that. We won't know for sure until we get in and actually start working and seeing what is needed. However, I know that one of the hardest things this past winter was the cold and flu season. If we could get 'flu shots supplied, that would help many fight it off."

"Because the 'flu really spread this year, there were many cases of bronchitis and pneumonia. We will need antibiotics, both shots and oral." A frown creased John's forehead as he thought.

"It was really hard to get them the treatment they needed this past year, because it had to be so unconventional. And I was only one doctor. I wish I could've done more" John said, glancing at Phoebe.

She knew he was thinking of the one or two he hadn't been able to help in time.

Mycroft could read the frustration and the anger John had at himself. He could extrapolate from what John said, and understood.

"Why did the treatment have to be so unconventional," he said, to try to distract John.

"Most of the Homeless Network won't go to regular medical clinics or surgeries for help," Phoebe said quietly.

"Why?" asked Mycroft, directly.

John looked at him sharply, but as far as he could tell, it was a question from someone honestly trying to understand, not one of distain.

Phoebe looked down, starting to blush at the sudden attention. She seemed to come to a decision, and looked up to meet Mycroft's gaze squarely.

"We don't like going to clinics because if we are sick enough, we are carted off to a hospital. Our things get taken away, because they are deemed dirty, useless or trash. We aren't treated like people, and we end up getting pulled away from the only life many of us have now. We would rather try and figure out how to get help on the street, than to be pulled into the established institutions by well meaning people. We don't want to become part of the 'System' because many times, that is why we are on the streets in the first place. The 'System' failed us once, or twice, or multiple times and we don't trust it, no matter how well-meaning the people in it are."

Phoebe realized suddenly how vehement she'd become, but she knew that she couldn't back down now. She was speaking for her people, her family.

"If the medical care is brought to us, in the shelters we know, by doctors we know and trust," she looked meaningfully at John, "or is at least headed up by one of them, then we will be much more likely to take advantage of it."

Heads nodded around the table as everyone absorbed the new perspective Phoebe gave into the homeless community.

Mycroft's eyes glinted, as he looked closely at Phoebe. "Thank you, Miss Phoebe. That makes sense when you put it that way."

She smiled quietly at him, "I'm glad you think so, Mr. Holmes. Most people in your position wouldn't be so understanding."

John bit the inside of his cheek to stifle a smirk at the slight stiffening of Mycroft's expression. However, he had to bite harder to keep from dropping his jaw in astonishment at Mycroft's response.

"I am not 'most people,' Miss Phoebe, and I have seen firsthand how the 'System' has failed someone close to me multiple times."

"I believe you have, sir. I may not seem like much, but I am observant, and I am a nurse." She kept the rest of her observations to herself for the time being.

Mycroft gave a slight nod of his head.

"I will do my best to work as a liaison between you and the doctors and nurses and the Homeless Network. They trust me, and if I am there, they should learn to trust you." Phoebe looked at Mycroft with a confidence John hadn't seen before. He knew it was there, but Phoebe usually kept it hidden around people she didn't know.

"For my part, I will make sure that all the supplies needed, will be provided," assured Mycroft.

John would have sworn that he saw a hint of surprise and admiration, just for a moment. But then he thought, this is Mycroft, and dismissed the notion.

Mr. Bishop, the lawyer spoke up from the end of the table where he was taking copious notes.

"What about a name? If we are going to do this properly, and we are," he said pointedly, "then the clinic you are setting up at the shelter should have a name."

John nodded agreement, and Mycroft inclined his head.

After a brief silence, different ideas were thrown out on the table.

"Shelter Clinic?"

"Homeless Medical Clinic?"

Phoebe started shaking her head. "I'm sorry, you can't put the word 'clinic' into it. It immediately conjures up ideas of a professional clinic, and many will stay away who really need the help."

Mike had an idea, but he was cautious about suggesting it. John had told him he'd been given that letter from Sherlock, and he knew it had spurred John to pursue this. He also knew even though Sherlock's name was cleared, they wouldn't be able to attach his name to it, outright. However, his idea might make it clear to those who knew.

"John," Mike started. "I have an idea, but…" He hesitated once everyone's eyes were on him, but kept going.

"What about 'Homeless Network Medical Care?' We could call it HNM Care for short."

John put down the pen he'd been holding. He closed the lid to his laptop, staring at his fingers spread out across the top of it, trying to ground himself. He understood immediately what Mike was suggesting and why.

He slowly raised his head, unable to hide his instinctive emotional reaction. He looked at Mike and managed a smile. Phoebe reached out and put her hand on his. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, reassuring her he was all right.

Then he turned to Mycroft. Usually he kept his guard up, but as they had worked side by side putting this together, they had gotten to know each other a little better. This time he hoped Mycroft would read him and understand.

Mycroft, rather surprised and privately pleased that John was letting him in, could see the silent request to say something first. He tipped his head slightly in acknowledgement, before turning to Mike.

"If John agrees, I do." He paused for a moment, weighing his words. "Sherlock cared about the Homeless Network a great deal. I think that it would be ideal to give this effort the name that Sherlock himself gave to them."

Phoebe said, "I know I can speak for all of the Homeless Network when I say we would be very honored. Sherlock is the reason we work together and can rely on each other. He is the reason every single person in the Network is clean of drugs and alcohol. He insisted on it if we were going to help him with anything. This Homeless Network Medical Care will provide us an opportunity to get help to those who need it."

John was grateful for the time Mycroft and Phoebe had given him to gather himself. He cleared his throat, but when he spoke, his voice was steady. "I agree. If there are no objections, then 'Homeless Network Medical Care' is the name. HNM Care for short. Thank you, Mike."

After a few more details were cleared up, and assignments given, it was agreed that John would continue to be the head of the whole project. As people completed their assignments, their information was to go to him. Mycroft would continue to help behind the scenes.

They spilled out of Angelo's door and onto the street. John turned and shook hands with Mr. Bishop and then exchanged a few words with Mike before he left.

As Mycroft engaged Dr. Ashwell in conversation, he studied John in the golden light from the windows of Angelo's. His hair in that light, with its short, military cut didn't show the gray that had started to creep its way through, spreading from his temples. But new lines were apparent across his forehead and around his eyes. His cheeks were far too hollow.

Mycroft found himself feeling something oddly akin to regret for not trying harder to get Sherlock's letter to John sooner. If he had known it would give the man this much purpose… He gave himself a mental shake as John walked over, Phoebe following him.

Mycroft offered a ride to Dr. Ashwell and John.

Dr. Ashwell smiled and accepted, stepping into the car, as the driver held the door for him.

John looked at Mycroft for a second and then said, "No, thank you. I am going to walk."

Mycroft nodded and said, "At least, if you are going to be walking for a while, allow me to drop your bags at the flat."

John paused to see if he was serious, and then surrendered the computer bag and his briefcase of files.

"Please tell Mrs. Hudson I'll be there in about an hour," he said in a low, voice.

Mycroft nodded, "Of course." As he took the bags, he lightly squeezed John's hand.

Noticing the extra pressure, John glanced up to see Mycroft gazing at him with understanding.

John gave a wan smile as Mycroft turned away. He got in the car and it pulled smoothly away from the curb, leaving John and Phoebe standing side by side. Phoebe turned to look at him, unable to decipher the emotions she saw in his eyes.

"John?"

John shook himself out of his thoughts when Phoebe spoke.

"Sorry. Just thinking. I… I need to walk a bit." He smiled at her, a little more convincingly than he had for Mycroft.

Unsure for once what John needed, she asked, "Do you want company?"

"I… I don't want you to take this the wrong way…" John hedged.

"John. Look who you're talking to. If you need space, for goodness sakes, of all people, don't you think I understand that?" Phoebe half laughed incredulously.

John let out a breath. "I know. I – this night has been more than a little overwhelming. I didn't think things would come together so smoothly. It's just a little much right now."

Phoebe smiled at him. "Don't worry about me. Off you go. You only have an hour before Mrs. Hudson is going to expect you back. Don't waste it!"

John thanked her gratefully. Pulling his cane from his jacket, he assembled it and slowly limped away down the street.

Phoebe watched after him, until he blended into the crowd of pedestrians, and she lost track of him. She glanced down the side street nearby, and saw a familiar figure. Walking over to him, she smiled at the red-headed boy perched on the top of a skip, waiting for her.

"Jimmy, do me a favor. Dr. John is heading south along here. Can you get ahead of him to see which way he goes? Get a couple of the others together to keep an eye on him, and set someone near Baker Street. When he goes inside, have someone get the word to me. I'll be at the Bridge."

Jimmy nodded eagerly. He jumped from the top of the skip to a window ledge, then onto the fire escape. Running up to the top, Phoebe saw his silhouette against the sky as he disappeared over the edge of the roof.

Satisfied that she'd done what she could, Phoebe headed for the Bridge that was the common meeting and gathering place for the Homeless Network to wait for news that John got home safely.

Hope you enjoyed. Please read and review... more to come soon. :)

 

Chapter Text

 

The Homeless Network Medical Care launched the first Saturday in December. For the first two months it was up and running John was there every Saturday, even when it was another doctor's weekend. The Homeless Network knew him, and they were more comfortable when they saw him there, even if he wasn't doing the direct treatment.

The HNM Care grew quickly as different people who were highly respected on the streets came through the doors. Once they started spreading the word, the lines grew each Saturday.

oOOooOOooOOo

His first time at the Homeless Network Medical Care, Big Tom found himself more nervous than he thought he would be, despite the pain he was in. He spoke with the nurse and answered her questions, before she had him head to the doctor.

Big Tom handed over the sheet of paper with his information on it, but the doctor just put it down on the table next to him. Big Tom sat in the chair provided, looking at the man across from him as he pulled his chair closer. If he had to guess, Big Tom figured they were about the same age. He had sandy hair, shot through with gray. His face was worn with lines of care and sadness, and judging by the circles under his eyes, he didn't look like he slept well.

"I'm Dr. John Watson. Please call me Dr. John." He reached out to shake Big Tom's hand.

Big Tom was rather taken aback, but shook his hand and found himself responding. "I'm Big Tom." He studied Dr. John's face, seeing it was open and welcoming and his blue eyes were bright and interested in him. He felt seen and recognized by the shorter, unassuming man in front of him.

John took a moment to informally examine the man before him. Big Tom was just that. Big. His shoulders were broad and he was over six feet tall. He was wearing many layers, which added to his size. John observed the red-rimmed eyes and that he was sniffing, so could tell he was fighting off a cold. But more concerning was the way he was holding his left arm close to his side protecting both his wrist and possibly his ribs.

"I think I've seen you under the Bridge when I have walked through there with Phoebe. But we haven't met before," said John as he made his visual assessment.

"Thought you looked familiar." Big Tom replied, making a mental note to talk to Phoebe to get a bit more information about him.

"I can see you're in pain there. Would you be willing to remove your jacket? I would prefer if you would remove all your layers but your t-shirt."

Big Tom hesitated. He didn't mind that there were people around, but the doctor was someone new, and he didn't just want to leave his things laying around.

John saw his hesitation for what it was. He'd been seeing it all day.

"You can leave your items right on the floor at your feet, and even keep your jacket across your lap if you'd prefer. We're going to stay right here unless you are uncomfortable with that?"

Big Tom shook his head just as Phoebe walked over. She touched the doctor's arm, and he turned to look at her.

"Here's some water. They're saving some food for you too. You need to take a break soon."

John smiled at her. "Many of these folks have been waiting a long time. I don't want to make them wait any longer."

"Yeah, and they don't want to hear your stomach growling either," she laughed back at him. Then she turned to Big Tom.

"Hey there. It's good to see you, Big Tom. How've you been?"

"Hmmphf. Wasn't watching where I was going. Slipped on the ice and knocked the breath out of me." He glanced down, "Hurt my wrist too."

He was aware of Dr. John watching him intently and looked over at him. All he saw was concern and a desire to help. He took a deep breath, and instantly regretted it as pain blossomed in his side. He couldn't hide the grimace.

"Here, let's get you up and get these layers off. It's going to hurt, but if we don't take care of it now it's only going to get worse," Dr. John said to him.

Big Tom nodded and stood up trying to ease his heavy coat off his shoulder. The movement caused more pain to stab through his side, and he wavered a bit on his feet as he tried to catch a breath.

The doctor was faster and stronger than he appeared to be. He immediately held onto Big Tom's right arm, supporting some of his weight as he regained his balance.

Big Tom felt him start to ease his coat off his shoulders, as Phoebe stepped forward to give a hand. Between the two of them, they were able help Big Tom get out of his layers and sit back down.

Dr. John asked Phoebe to get him a couple of icepacks. When she returned, she wrapped them in a towel.

"Here, we're going to get ice on this wrist, to help bring the swelling down, so I can see better what is going on with that. In the meantime, may I listen to your lungs and check your ribs?"

Big Tom nodded his assent, and John stood by his side, listening to him breathe. Satisfied, he took the stethoscope out of his ears and said, "Well, if you broke any ribs, they didn't do any damage to your lungs. But, now I need to check them by hand to find out. Would that be all right?"

At Big Tom's nod, he very gently palpated his ribs, checking for any that were cracked or broken. Big Tom clenched his teeth together and grunted a few times, then he hissed a breath through his teeth and his face paled suddenly.

"All right. Just cracked. I'm going to wrap them, but not too tightly. You need to try to remember to take a couple of slow, deep breaths every couple of hours. It's going to hurt, but it will help keep that cold you have from settling in your lungs."

Once John got him settled and back into one of his long-sleeved button-ups, he rolled back the sleeve on Big Tom's left arm.

After examining it, he decided to splint it.

"Until the swelling goes down a bit more, I'm not going to be able to tell if it's fractured or not. I'm splinting it just to be safe. If it's sprained, the splint will be good to keep it immobilized anyway," said John.

"Okay, Doc," Big Tom said tiredly.

A wistful smile crossed the doctor's face.

His curiosity piqued, Big Tom asked, "What is it?"

Dr. John shook his head. "I just haven't been called 'Doc' in a long time." At Big Tom's questioning look, he continued. "I was an army doctor. I got called 'Doc' a lot before I came home."

"Whereabouts were you stationed?" Big Tom asked. As soon as he saw the doctor hesitate he added, "You don't have to tell me. I get that it's hard to talk about."

"No, it's all right." Dr. John sighed. "I was stationed in Afghanistan before I was invalided home."

"I was over there too. Didn't get invalided, but my tour ended and I was discharged. Ended up on the streets when my pension didn't cover rent and food," Big Tom said. "Turned out all right in the end. Got myself some friends and family now," he finished with a small smile directed at Phoebe.

Nodding his understanding with a hint of a smile of his own, Dr. John gave him some final instructions.

"I know you don't feel up to anything for the next couple of days, but take it easy this week. If I see you around town mid-week, I will check you out. Otherwise, be here next Saturday," he ordered.

Big Tom looked at him sharply, as a commanding tone crept into the doctor's voice.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to get that forceful. It's the officer in me coming out. I just want to make sure you take care of yourself," John apologized. "I will be the doctor here next week as well, so you will be able to see me."

John helped him to his feet, and Phoebe picked up Big Tom's belongings, and walked him over to where he could get some food, and reserve a bed for the night.

oOOooOOooOOo

The rest of the day flew by. By the time everyone had been seen, and everything was cleaned up, it was late afternoon. John stretched and picked up his bag, and the case of supplies he had to return to the clinic.

Waving to the director, he turned and headed out the door, pausing along the way to talk to a couple of people. He gave a salute to Big Tom, who returned it with a smile. Checking in on an elderly lady, Maggie, he made sure she was resting comfortably. Seeing that she was nearly asleep, he smiled and patted her hand before leaving.

Stepping outside, he took a deep breath and rolled his shoulders. As he stepped down onto the sidewalk, he looked up at the stars that were able to be seen though the lights of the city. How he wished Sherlock could be there and make some smart remark about the solar system or something. He wished that he could have been by his side today, telling John everyone's life stories.

God, he missed him.

Shaking off the mood, he headed down the street. The sooner he could get this stuff dropped off at the clinic, the sooner he could get home.

oOOooOOooOOo

Another shelter had contacted John to see if he would be willing to help them set up a HMN Care. He worked hard with them, and as all the ground work had been laid with the first HNM Care, it wasn't as difficult at the first one had been.

Dr. Ashwell was an invaluable resource. He helped John contact two clinics to work together with the new shelter. He poured himself into the project enthusiastically and encouraged John when he was struggling.

John was well occupied, between the HNM Care and working shifts at the clinics. He still got together with Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly for their weekly dinners. He even found himself meeting Mycroft at the Diogenes Club every few weeks. He'd drop in for an hour or two, or Mycroft would pull up in one of his cars next to him as he was walking, and they would talk for a little while. Sometimes about technical and legal issues, but more often than not, the conversation turned to more personal topics.

Surprisingly, John found he could talk to Mycroft and Mycroft was willing to talk to him. It wasn't easy, because he wasn't Sherlock, but at the same time, Sherlock was the common thread that kept them tied to each other.

John still ran as well. Usually it was in the late afternoon, once he was done with his shift at the clinic. However, he still woke up several times a week from nightmares, though usually he could stay in the flat.

But once a month at least, he was driven from Baker Street in the middle of the night, running away from the demons in his head. On those occasions, he invariably found himself at Sherlock's grave. There he'd stay for a while, his head in his hands, his back against the cold black marble. Eventually, John would get to his feet stiffly, brush his fingers along the top of the stone, and walk away, wandering the streets until daybreak.

Those bad nights, Phoebe, Big Tom, Wiggins, or another member of the Homeless Network would find him and convince him to join them around one of their fires, either in the Arches or under the Bridge. But some nights, he wouldn't go with them. He walked, so lost in his thoughts that he didn't seem to see or hear anyone else. Those nights, the Homeless Network spread the word, and he was watched over wherever he went.

oOOooOOooOOo

The second shelter got up and running with the HNM Care shortly before the second anniversary of Sherlock's death. John thought the timing was fitting.

He was helping at both shelters, filling in until all the scheduling with the new shelter sorted itself. However, on that Saturday, John didn't help out. That Saturday he spent most of the day at Sherlock's grave. John sat by it, not feeling the need to say anything. He pulled out a copy of Sherlock's letter, the original safely locked in a box under his bed. He always carried it with him, because sometimes he needed a reminder. A reminder of his voice, the way he talked, the way he thought. It was all there in the letter. He could almost hear him in his mind as he re-read the letter.

Dear John,

I am writing this while sitting in the lab at St. Bart's. You're asleep on a stool. I have set things in motion. I know I will be facing Moriarty soon, though you don't. I intend to get you out of here before, to keep you safe.

I have to admit that I hope you never have to read this letter. If you are, then I have to assume that my conversation with Moriarty didn't go as planned. I am sorry, John. I will do my best, but in this instance I cannot foresee what is going to happen. I suppose this is one way I am preparing for every possible outcome.

I have instructed Molly to come to this lab and retrieve several letters, if something happens that I am unable to retrieve them myself, and deliver them to Mycroft. I am hiding them away, and told her where to look…

…I am not given to sentiment easily, John, you know this. However, I find I am allowing myself to indulge in it for the moment…

…please take care of Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade…

…please take care of the Homeless Network…

…please take care of London for me, John.

Most importantly, John, please take care of yourself. Live. Don't go back to how you were when we first met. You have a purpose, at least I hope I have given you several above. You are strong, John, and I want you to be happy.

If you are reading this now, I know you don't want to hear that, or think that you can be. You have been my first true friend, as close as a brother (yes, I know I have Mycroft, but this is different and you know it, so don't give me that face. You know the one I am talking about…). I never thought I would have someone in my life willing to defend me, stand by me, and even die for me. Imagine my shock at The Pool…

You are strong and gentle, a soldier and a doctor. You have many qualities I admire.

You've made me laugh. The first time was after what you termed our 'ridiculous' chase after that cab. Know that is quite an accomplishment. It is something that rarely happened before we met…

…live for me John. I hope you never have to read this. I hope that we can reach old age together, still side by side. That would be my dream for us, but if that cannot happen, live for me. Do what I cannot now, and take care of my city and my people in it. Keep them safe, heal them, and allow yourself to heal.

…I shudder at how sentimental this has become. However, I do care for you a great deal, and if I find it hard to express in person, I need to at least write it here for you to find…

… wish all the best for you…

Live well, John Watson, a long and happy life.

Sincerely and always your friend,

Sherlock

John was only able to read the bits and parts that stood out to him through his tears. But it was enough for today. He looked up after a short while and saw a familiar figure walking toward him, carrying his usual umbrella loosely in his hand.

oOOooOOooOOo

Upon seeing John seated on the ground, his back leaning against the side of his brother's gravestone, Mycroft slowed to a stop. For once he found himself hoping he wasn't intruding. He continued forward when John looked up and saw him coming.

It was a testament to their growing friendship that John didn't try to hide the fact that he'd been crying. Seeing a well worn piece of paper in his hand, he knew John had been reading Sherlock's letter again. He leaned on his umbrella, next to John, and silently contemplated his brother's grave.

When John finally spoke, his voice was still rough with emotion.

"You miss him." It was a statement.

"I… yes," Mycroft surprised himself with the honest answer. "Though, Dr. Watson, that sounds a little too much like sentiment to me."

His eyes warmed with a slight smile, as he turned to John at his quiet snort of laughter.

"Watch out with that. Sentiment, could be dangerous…" There was no rancor behind the words as John left the sentence hanging.

Mycroft reached out a hand to help John to his feet.

"Yes well, my brother always was a weakness of mine. It seems I might have one or two more, now." He pointedly looked away from John, anticipating disbelief or even… disappointment.

Now where did the thought of disappointment come from? You know where. The real question is why?

He didn't expect John to grip his hand more tightly after he was on his feet. Nor did he expect John's words.

"Don't be an idiot, Mycroft," said John, his words tinged with real affection and humor. "Allowing a few people in can be strengthening, not debilitating."

Mycroft looked intently at him, as John let go of his hand in order to pick up his cane where it was leaning against the black marble.

"But look at the distress it has caused you. Isn't better to avoid that attachment?"

John seemed to realize another Holmes brother was trying to understand his own emotions.

"It would seem that way, wouldn't it? Avoid the grief of loss. However, if I weren't feeling this pain, it would mean I never felt love and friendship either. It is those emotions I hold onto even in the midst of the pain, because they were worth it."

"He was worth it."

Gesturing to the letter in his hand, John continued, "I hold onto the knowledge that the insufferable git learned to care too. During the time we were flatmates, Sherlock learned what it was to have a friend, to have someone outside of his family truly love him and care for him. It changed him. And our friendship changed me as well."

"Contrary to popular opinion, I don't make friends easily. Never have. People think I do, because I seem so easy going, but you deduced that at our first meeting, I believe. Remember? 'Trust issues?'" They both smiled at the memory of the warehouse.

"Your sadness Mycroft, means that you loved him, as I know he loved you. Why else would he pick on you as he did? That's what siblings usually do."

Mycroft's frown made John smile.

"You can hold onto the 'Ice Man' front as much as you want. But you are mourning for your little brother, who you always wanted to protect. I can see through it, just like you can see through the façade I plaster on my face for the world, on the days I feel like I'm breaking inside."

Mycroft gripped the handle of his umbrella tightly, looking down at the ground. He didn't want to admit how John's words were affecting him.

What in the world was wrong with him?

Well aware of John's eyes on him, he sighed, looking up to meet them.

John was looking at him with understanding, no trace of pity or censure. He could see that John had pushed aside his own emotions for the moment, and was concentrating fully on him. It was, however, rather daunting to contemplate setting aside his "British Government" persona.

If I'm going to speak with anyone about …emotions… I would rather it be John. Sherlock seemed to trust him in this area.

Mycroft knew John was observing him, drawing conclusions, but it wasn't the same as when Sherlock did it. It was startling to be pinned by this sharp mind where he hadn't expected it. But it wasn't painful, it was tempered by the …warmth… of John's compassion.

"I don't…" Mycroft abruptly cut off his words, took a deep breath and started again. "Once, Sherlock asked me a question and I told him all lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage."

"What was his question?" John asked.

"He asked me if I ever wondered if there was something wrong with us. I never really answered him."

Because I couldn't. I didn't know the answer.

John could see and hear the emotions, the regret and guilt Mycroft had been hiding away, hiding from, for two years. As he'd observed Mycroft, he had also seen a brief hint of despair, the same loss of hope he himself had experienced. His heart clenched in sympathy.

Unsure of how it would be received, John could still see what was needed. He faced Mycroft fully and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"There was nothing wrong with Sherlock. There is nothing wrong with you either, Mycroft Holmes." There was a fierceness in the doctor's normally gentle voice.

Mycroft had heard that fierceness before, when John had ripped into him for betraying his brother. But this fierceness was different, it was protective.

Of him.

He blinked in surprise at John.

"I'll say it again, Mycroft because I can see you don't believe me. There is nothing wrong with you. From what little Sherlock has told me, and what I have deduced," John surprised himself by using that word, "you two were taught to never have emotions. Or at least not show them."

"My guess would be you were punished for them, and no one ever taught you how to correctly handle them. So you, with your brilliant mind, learned to lock them away. When your younger brother came along, and showed such high spirits, you taught him how to lock his emotions away, to attempt to protect him. Probably from your father."

Mycroft was shocked at John's insight. He didn't want to admit how close to home John's words hit. Though, he suspected that John could tell. His mask of indifference had slipped so far that it was unrecoverable in front of this remarkable man. More and more he was learning what his brother had seen in John.

John's hand dropped from his shoulder, "I know I'm not one to talk, though I am trying. But Mycroft, not eating well, or enough, and not letting yourself sleep is not the way to handle grief and guilt."

"I know this will sound crazy to you Mycroft." John was unable to believe he was going to suggest this to Mycroft of all people. "Try talking to Sherlock. Here or where ever you can see yourself talking to him. Tell him the things you couldn't say to him before."

As Mycroft started to shake his head, John stopped him.

"I know, I know. When it was first suggested to me that I tell someone what I wanted to say to him, I refused. I couldn't say it to anyone else. But then I found a place. Here, where I felt I could talk to him."

"It hurt at first. It felt like it made things worse, but it actually gave an outlet for everything I had been holding back. In the long run, it does help. I still do it. Sometimes I come here and just sit. Other times, I talk about what's going on, as if he could hear me. Then there are the times that I talk about… share… my… emotions. How much I miss him." John's voice cracked on the last couple of words.

Pointing to where he'd been sitting, "You saw some of that today."

Looking Mycroft in the eyes, John was satisfied that he had said all he could for the time being. He nodded and turned briefly to the gravestone. He snapped off a sharp salute, standing at attention and said "See you later, Sherlock. Listen to your brother for once, you idiot."

As John turned away from the grave, Mycroft caught a glimpse of a tender smile, and eyes filled with tears.

John walked away, but stopped just beyond Mycroft. Turning back, he placed his hand on Mycroft's shoulder again taking a breath to say something. John thought better of it and just gave his shoulder a squeeze before leaving him alone with his brother's grave.

Mycroft stood for a few moments, allowing John's words to sink in. He decided not to delete them or dismiss them. At least not for now. His mind was swirling with new information that he needed to catalogue.

Knowing John would honor his need for privacy, he didn't look around to make sure he was alone. He placed both hands on his umbrella handle, looked at the name of his brother etched in stone and haltingly started to speak.

John glanced back just before he passed from sight. He saw a man in an impeccable black suit, uncharacteristically allow his shoulders to bow with grief, then reach out and tentatively touch his brother's gravestone. As John slowly walked home, he shook his head in amazement that not just one, but both Holmes brothers had allowed him to see them as they really were.

He found himself feeling oddly privileged.

oOOooOOooOOo

Later that night, John kissed Mrs. Hudson's cheek as he said goodnight before heading up to his flat. They had just returned from a family meal with Marco, Anna, Anthony and Greg and Molly. It was actually a good evening of sharing stories about Sherlock and laughing together.

He kept going up the stairs, all the way to his room. After changing into pajamas and his dressing gown, he pulled a box out from under his bed and unlocked it. Opening it, he carefully set aside the original letter from Sherlock. He pulled out several pictures he'd put away, smiling as he saw them. Underneath them, he picked up what he'd been looking for. Laying it on the floor next to him, he put the letter back, and the pictures. Then he paused, picking one back out, laying it aside as he locked the box again and shoved it under his bed.

Picking up the items he'd retrieved, he retreated downstairs to the kitchen. Starting water for tea, he moved his laptop to the kitchen table and waited for it to boot up. He walked over to the sliding doors between the kitchen and sitting room, pausing with his hand resting lightly on them. Taking a breath, he opened the door and stepped into a room full of memories.

He walked past his chair to the book shelves. On the way he paused and lightly touched the skull, smiling slightly. Not finding what he wanted on the bookshelves, he walked over to the desk between the two windows. Gingerly moving papers, so as not to disturb anything too much, his heart pounded as he almost expected to be yelled at by Sherlock for moving his things. Shaking his head at himself, he moved a few more things, finally finding what he was looking for.

Once back in the kitchen, he closed the door behind him, sitting down at the table. He set down the picture frame retrieved from the sitting room. He forgot about the tea he was going to make, as he picked up the external hard drive he'd gotten from his room and plugged it into his computer.

He gasped at the sheer amount of information on the drive. Sally certainly hadn't been kidding when she said they scanned in everything they could find. He smiled slightly to see some of the files were named with titles he'd used for the blog.

Hours later, John still sat at the table, perusing files, narrowing them down finally to a list of twelve. Five of them were ones that he'd written up on his blog, but others were new. They were all ones he'd either helped on or was aware of, though.

As John started to write, he started at the very beginning, describing how he and Sherlock met and the changes he went through within the first 48 hours of meeting the man. The memories flowed, and the sound of steadily tapping computer keys filled the flat.

When he finally stopped writing for the night, he saved his work and retreated to the chair in the corner of the kitchen. He very carefully set the picture, now in its new frame, on the counter next to the chair.

He remembered the night it was taken. John had dragged Sherlock to a pub to meet Greg and some others there for a pint. During the course of the night, someone snapped this picture and later gave it to John.

John's head was tipped back slightly as he was overcome with laughter at something Lestrade said off camera. Sherlock, dressed perfectly in his suit with the dark velvet jacket, had rested his hand on John's shoulder as he glanced at him. A genuine smile lit up his face, and his silver-gray eyes sparkled with mischief and laughter.

It was one of the few candid photos John had of them, and it was his favorite.

John slouched down in the chair, stretching his legs out to rest his feet on one of the kitchen chairs at the end of the table. He slowly dropped off to sleep, still gazing at the picture.

oOOooOOooOOo

By the end of June, John had finished writing out the twelve stories, satisfied he'd done the best he could. He'd picked cases that showcased Sherlock's brilliance. He also picked ones that showed glimpses into the man and his character. He shared bits and pieces of their life together at the flat, the experiments spread all over, the violin at three in the morning, the arguments and the laughter.

When it was finished, he printed it and stopped by the Diogenes Club. He was shown into Mycroft's office, where he sat and waited patiently.

When Mycroft walked in, shutting the door behind him, John stood waiting for him to put down the files he was carrying on his desk.

"Mycroft." John shook his hand, happy to see that he was looking better than the last time he'd seen him.

"To what do I own the honor, John?"

"I'm sorry for dropping by without calling first. I won't take much of your time, as I can see you're busy." John nodded to the files on Mycroft's desk.

Mycroft gave a rather tight smile. "I have been working a considerable amount, but I could use a short break."

Mycroft thought for a moment, then spoke again.

"When I joined you at Sherlock's grave, I had been working for the past two years on tracking down Moriarty's ring. His web. But, I hadn't been pursuing it as zealously as I could have done. Now, I have approached it as Sherlock would have. I have wasted no resource."

"I don't quite know why I didn't devote myself to it before, but I am making up for it."

"Information from multiple sources has appeared randomly over the last couple of years. Now more is coming in with increasing frequency, as we act on it. We have been able to very quickly apprehend wide circles of criminal activity that had been under Moriarty's supervision. Some of his higher ranking employees have been found dead before we arrived. "

"Do you have any idea where this information is coming from?" John asked curiously.

"Not at this time. Though I am looking into it," Mycroft said simply, then he cleared his throat, staring pointedly at the binder of paper in his hands.

"Ah. Yes." John said, distracted from his thoughts. "This is something I have been writing the last couple of months. I wanted you to read it, though it may not be exactly what you're normal fare. I want to get this published in book form. If you can help me, or point me in the right direction, I would be grateful." John held the binder out to Mycroft as he spoke.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow, but took it.

"I will read this and do what I can," he said.

John smiled and said, "I will leave you to your work. Thank you for seeing me in the middle of your day." He calmly turned and opened the door. "Good day, Mycroft." With that, John was gone.

Mycroft stood mystified for a moment. Then he looked down at the papers he held loosely in his hands.

The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes

By

Dr. John Watson

Dedicated to my best friend and brother.

Shaking his head at the unassuming, yet complex man who'd just left his office, he set aside the binder to read later.

oOOooOOooOOo

That night, he settled in front of his fire place, the binder of papers from John on his lap. When he leaned back, finished with what John had written, he realized hours had passed. He was surprised to find himself chuckling at times at the antics of his brother. Though it was far from just a factual, scientific presentation of information, it was very engaging. Maybe not entirely accurate, and a bit romanticized, but certainly something the general public would enjoy.

Finding himself surprisingly emotionally exhausted, he made a note to contact someone in the publishing business who owed him a favor. He rested his head against the back of the chair staring into the flames, thinking. Then he picked up what John wrote and started to read it again, from the beginning.

a/n: Hope you enjoyed. Another original character will be showing up in the next chapter. I am excited to introduce you to him! :)

 

Chapter Text

 

Three months later, a small package showed up for John. Mrs. Hudson had brought it up and left it on the kitchen table for him to find when he got home from the clinic. He looked at it for a moment, dropping his bag on a kitchen chair. Turning, he ran upstairs, cleaned up and changed before coming back to the kitchen.

Grabbing a mug of fresh tea, he sat down at the table. With fingers that trembled slightly, he carefully unwrapped the package, revealing four copies of a book that he'd poured his heart into. John picked one up, rubbing the tips of his fingers lightly over the cover.

He sighed and gently placed all four books in his bag. He stood, collected his jacket and cane, and slowly walked down the stairs to escort Mrs. Hudson to dinner with Greg and Molly.

He waited until they were done eating to open his bag. Suddenly nervous, he handed them each a book, that they'd had no idea he'd written.

Molly was the first to speak.

"John? Is this? I mean, did you… when?"

"I finished the writing at the end of June, and handed it over to Mycroft. He pushed it through the process, and it is going to be released in England tomorrow, and the rest of the world in about a month."

Mrs. Hudson couldn't say anything, just slipped her arm through John's and hugged it while tears ran down her face.

Greg sat very still and very quiet, his eyes glued to the image on the cover. His heart constricted in his chest as gazed at the sight he'd taken for granted so many times, the silhouettes of Sherlock and John walking away from a crime scene together. In the picture they were just darker shadows at the end of a dark alley. It was something he never would see again.

Tearing his eyes away from the front cover, he opened the book to the dedication page and froze as he read it.

Dedicated to my best friend and brother;

Sherlock Holmes

And to those who believe in him,

And me;

Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson

Everyone at the table heard Greg's sharp gasp of shock.

John looked over from giving Mrs. Hudson a hug, and saw what his friend had read. Molly was touching his arm, calling his name softly, attempting to get his attention. Greg didn't move, didn't even register that he'd heard her.

John patted Mrs. Hudson's hand, and she released his arm. He leaned across the table saying his friend's name. When he didn't respond, John wrapped his hand around Greg's wrist and said his name again.

Suddenly Greg jumped, realizing everyone's eyes were on him.

"Sorry, mate." Greg cleared his throat. "I… I just wasn't expecting… I mean… the picture… and…" He closed his eyes, knowing he wasn't expressing himself well.

John could see the guilt Greg was struggling with. "Hey, Greg. I understand." It's ok, it's not your fault.

Greg managed a thin smile. "Yeah, well, I shouldn't have let it surprise me as much as it did. You'd think I'd get used to surprises in my line of work." Thanks, but you're not convincing me right now.

"Yeah well, but that's work." We'll talk later.

Trying to distract Greg from his thoughts, he laughed and said, "When I saw the first picture they wanted to put on the cover, I said absolutely not. It was that blasted picture of him in the hat."

Greg started to laugh, and Molly and Mrs. Hudson giggled at the thought. John let go of Greg's wrist and settled back in his chair, now that it didn't look like Greg was going to bolt out of the restaurant.

"Seriously, they were going to try to put the 'Hat-Man' picture on there?" Molly's voice rose in disbelief as she reached for Greg's hand under the table and held it tight.

"Yes. You can imagine how amused he would have been about that one! I think he would have come back to haunt me if I'd allowed that!" They all laughed again at the thought of the expression that would have been on Sherlock's face.

"Then they tried to convince me to put on a picture of the two of us together. It wasn't even a flattering one. I finally got through to them that I didn't want our faces recognizable on the front. Thankfully, Mycroft stepped in."

John shook his head at the memory of the argument with the publishers.

"I seriously almost pulled the book from them and walked away from it. Mycroft convinced me to give them one more chance. When I went back to meet with them the last time, they had multiple pictures to choose from. I think some were cleaned up CCTV shots and others were some random shots taken at crime scenes of us."

"Mycroft and I decided on this one because we weren't facing the camera, and you could see the crime tape and police cars in the background, and they became more of the focus than the figures of Sherlock and me." John gave a faint smile as he leaned back, unconsciously tracing the edges of his book with his fingers. "It seemed fitting, because Sherlock was all about the Work and the crime, and could care less about the publicity."

John shared a bit more about the process of writing, and where he'd gotten his information from. After a bit longer, John said he needed to leave. He knew there would be reporters on the street in the morning, and he wasn't planning on going out if he could help it.

Mycroft was helping with a prewritten press release to coincide with the book release, which would hopefully answer most people's questions without him having to make any direct comments. However, he knew he still was going to have a hassle with reporters.

oOOooOOooOOo

A month after The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes was released, Greg called John a few of times from crime scenes, asking his opinion about a crime scene or a victim's condition. The fourth time Greg called, John decided he was going to find out what was going on. He told Greg he needed to see the crime scene, and Greg readily agreed, telling him where to find them.

John arrived at the scene, climbed out of the cab and paid the cabbie. All the while, he looked around and absorbed the activity, the orders being called. It was surreal being on a crime scene without Sherlock. He stood just outside the yellow tape, and took a moment to calm himself, center and focus.

He scanned the area, seeing Donovan directing officers in keeping people back, while Anderson spoke with several people before entering the house across the street. As Anderson entered the house, he could see Lestrade standing by the door, talking to someone on his phone.

Greg caught his eye, and nodded to him, calling to Donovan to let him through.

"Dr. Watson," she said.

John gave her a small smile and a nod as he slipped under the yellow tape and made his way through the officers to the front door.

"What is going on here, Detective Inspector? Why did you call me?" John demanded, his tone betraying how honestly puzzled he was by the request.

"I need you."

"I'm not Sherlock, Greg. I can't do what he did," John tried.

Greg was already shaking his head.

"I saw you get out of the cab. I saw you taking everything in from the people in the crowd, to who the officers were. I saw you scanning the buildings around us, like you were looking for something out of place. You examined the ground as you walked up, and the grass on either side of the walk before you ever got to the door."

Greg stopped. His eyes locked with John's, he picked his next words carefully. "John, you learned from him. Whether it was conscious or not, you absorbed his lessons. You make deductions all the time, whether you're treating a patient, or whether you're talking to me and Molly and determining where we had our lunch date together!"

John sighed, know Greg was right, that he'd looked at everything, and there were times things jumped out at him so obviously, that he could hear Sherlock's voice in his head, coaching him.

"John, I'm not asking you to make wild leaps. I just need a fresh eye on things once in a while. I need someone who isn't 'trained' by the department to only look for and see certain things. I need someone who isn't afraid to think outside the box."

Greg caught John's arm before he could turn away.

"Give it a chance John. I know a bit of your background and that you were on a special ops team. You also worked closely with Sherlock. It's wired in you to observe and see things that others don't, whether as a soldier or doctor."

Greg ducked his head under John's accusing glare.

"I'm sorry, John. I promise, I didn't go prying too deep. Besides, there was a lot blacked out anyway… what in the world were you involved in?"

Seeing John's glare ramp up a notch, he raised his hands in surrender. "No… no, sorry. I don't need to know. Just, I had to look, because if I am going to make this work right from the start, I have to hire you up front as a consultant. Thus, the background check."

"Wait. What?" John replayed what Greg had just said. "You want to hire me as an official consultant?"

"Yes. If I do, then I can call you… and it covers both of us," Greg smiled ruefully.

John snorted, "Talk about doing things backwards front."

"I know. Lessons learned the hard way," sighed Greg. "But will you take the job? Will you just come in and tell me what you see? What is out of place? I need different perspectives on some of these cases."

John dithered on the spot. He knew this is what he wanted, right from when he stepped out of the cab. To be involved in something like this again made him feel a bit closer to Sherlock. He knew though, he couldn't just do something because it made him feel closer to his friend, but because he could actually help.

Making up his mind, he turned to Greg. "Ok, let's try this, but just as a trial. If we don't think it's working, then I stop. You aren't obligated to keep me on, and I am not obligated to keep coming. Four cases or four months. Whichever comes first, and we re-evaluate at that point."

Greg stuck out his hand, and John gripped it. Shaking his hand, Greg grinned at John and said, "Agreed."

oOOooOOooOOo

At the beginning of December, John helped launch another HNM Care at a third shelter, with another two clinics. They now had a total of three shelters and six clinics working together. He was getting requests from the opposite side of London for help in setting up some shelters there with HNM Care as well.

John still couldn't believe how well the Homeless Network Medical Care had taken off with the shelters, and all the clinics willing to help staff them. With more doctors helping with the HNM Care, John was left with more time to work with Greg, though he still filled in and rotated between the three shelters frequently.

Mrs. Hudson just laughed and shook her head as she came into the kitchen and saw case files spread all over the table and counter top.

"Now, this looks familiar," she said with a smile, laying her hand on John's shoulder. She leaned over him, where he was pouring over photos and notes at the table.

John glanced up and smiled back, neither of them needing to say the words. Sherlock was still missed by them, even if they were doing what he asked them to; taking care of each other, the Homeless Network and London.

They could keep on going, but it would never be the same without him.

oOOooOOooOOo

Mid-January London got hit by a huge cold snap. The temperatures dove, and the wind-chill approached the near deadly range for those on the streets.

John dove into the HNM Care work even more as he saw his Homeless Network coming in with cases of frostbite, severe colds, and hypothermia in some cases. All the shelters were filled to overflowing. They just couldn't provide enough help.

He put his work with Scotland Yard on hold and with the other doctors and nurses, coordinated to get the HNM Care available three days a week during the bad weather. It seemed to help, and the lines weren't as long. They couldn't provide shelter for everyone, but they were able to identify and treat the worst off.

At the end of two weeks, finally the cold spell broke and the temperatures slowly climbed back into the normal range. The HNM Care went back to it regularly scheduled Saturdays.

John staggered in the door of Baker Street, his arms and legs heavy with fatigue. The stairs facing him looked as forbidding as a mountain.

"John!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed, hurrying out the door of her flat. "You look horrible! I haven't seen you for almost a week! The only reason I didn't call Greg to find you was because Mycroft called me to make sure I knew you were all right."

"I did come back, once in a while for a couple of hours sleep, but I was working as many of the HNM Cares as I could. Then I walked the streets with Phoebe or Big Tom or Wiggins to find others at night who needed help and hadn't been able to get to the shelters."

Mrs. Hudson tutted and helped him get his jacket off.

"Now get yourself upstairs, young man and go straight to bed," she scolded. "Wait a minute. Give me your phone."

John protested, but Mrs. Hudson overrode his objections.

"You are not going to be disturbed unless it is a real emergency. And I will determine what constitutes and emergency, dear. Not you. Now off you pop. Get some sleep."

John, too tired to argue, slowly limped up the stairs, all the way to his room. He collapsed, fully clothed, on his bed, falling asleep almost immediately. He never noticed Mrs. Hudson tiptoe into his room, take off his shoes, and tuck him under a blanket she pulled from his wardrobe.

oOOooOOooOOo

Near the end of February that same winter, John settled into his chair after dismissing a patient at the HNM Care. Phoebe showed up at his side, quietly holding a plate with a sandwich on it. She stood there and waited. After a minute, she moved the plate closer to John.

John heaved a sigh. He turned his head and watched the nurse who was screening the next patient Big Tom was escorting through the line. When he looked back, the plate was right under his nose. Ignoring it again, he looked up at Phoebe over his right shoulder. She was innocently staring off into the distance, seeming to be entranced by something happening across the room.

John cleared his throat. Phoebe jumped.

They caught each other's eyes, and after a brief staring contest, started to laugh.

"Fine, fine," John mock grumbled as he took the plate from her hand. He quickly ate about half the sandwich. She handed him a bottle of water, of which he drank half by the time Big Tom and his friend came over.

Handing the water bottle back to Phoebe with a smile, he turned to Big Tom and said, "Well, what can I do for you today?"

Big Tom smiled, having seen the exchange between him and Phoebe.

"She bugging you, Doc John?" he asked with a chuckle. "'Course, if you aren't listening to her, we all gonna be in trouble."

They grinned at each other, before John sobered and focused on the man Big Tom was supporting.

Taking the paperwork handed to him by Big Tom, he set it aside, looking at it only briefly, before turning to his new patient.

"Hello. I'm Dr. John. What's your name?"

The man in front of him ducked his head. John got a glimpse of a pale face hiding behind long, dirty blonde hair. His knit cap was pulled low over his eyes, and his multiple layers of clothes were obviously old and well worn. Big Tom set his bag of belongings and a case on the floor near the chair across from John.

The man muttered something unintelligible and turned away. Big Tom leaned over his hunched shoulders and spoke to him quietly. Grudgingly, he allowed Big Tom to turn him back as he winced and clutched his right forearm more tightly.

John could see blood seeping through his clothing and between his fingers. He shot a concerned glace up at Big Tom.

"This is Ollie, Doc. He's been on the streets for a while, but just got 'round to this side of town. He had a run in with some not so nice drug dealers."

"He's not…" John started.

"No. He's clean. Part of the Homeless Network. He helped several of us out during that cold snap we had. Helped Maggie get to one of the HNM Cares when she got caught out too long. The dealers were trying to get him to 'help' them sell. He decided he didn't want to. They didn't like 'no' for an answer."

Ollie gave a weak laugh. "They were idiots," he managed to whisper. He hissed as John and Big Tom helped him ease out of his long shabby coat.

He suddenly tensed and looked at them out from under his long hair. He started shaking his head. "I'm fine. Just leave me alone. I… I can… I'm fine… don't touch- my stuff…" His voice shook and he nearly fell. Big Tom caught him.

"Sorry, Doc. He was willing to come here until he saw the line and number of people, and suddenly all he wanted to do was get away. I don't know what it is." Big Tom supported all of Ollie's weight, which wasn't much, as John and Phoebe got the rest of his layers off.

"It's ok. Seems to be a common reaction when people see me," John joked.

"He looks like he lost a lot of blood, and he's malnourished," John said with concern.

Big Tom nodded. "Heard him shout, and knew his voice. Grabbed Wiggins and Raz and we chased away the guys attacking him. Managed to keep him from getting knifed any worse than he was."

"Anyone else get hurt?" John asked, nodding at the blood on Big Tom's shirt.

"Nope, Doc. I promise. Unfortunately, it's all his."

Big Tom shot a glance across the room. Following his gaze, John saw Raz and Wiggins grabbing food and then spreading out to separate corners of the shelter. He realized they were setting up a perimeter guard. He also noted the blood on their shirts. They nodded at him, then scanned the crowd inside the shelter, as well as those coming in the doors.

John nodded back and settled into the job laid before him. Ollie.

Ollie sank into the chair Big Tom guided him to, listening to the conversation between the two of them. He watched as John prepared a tray of medical supplies and turned towards him. He shrank against the back of the chair as John leaned down to look into his brown eyes.

"Ollie, listen. All your clothes and belongings are right by your feet. Please let me see your arm."

The doctor was looking at him earnestly. Ollie looked at him warily. He was afraid. The doctor was too close. There were too many people. It was too much. He should have known better than to come. It's just… he knew how bad the slice was on his arm, and he couldn't take care of it himself.

His breath came in short gasps as he fought the light-headedness brought on by the blood loss, fear and lack of food. Stupid. So stupid. I shouldn't be here. They're going to find me. This time I won't get away…

Concerned, John could tell Ollie was on the verge of running. Big Tom tensed for action, ready to hold his new friend down. John gave a barely perceptible shake of his head, and Big Tom dropped his hand back to his side.

"Ollie, the people who attacked you aren't going to get you here. You're safe here. Raz and Wiggins have even set up a guard and are watching everyone going in and out. You can trust us. You have people here who can help protect you. All I want to do is help."

"Please, Ollie. I won't force you. You're not trapped. You can leave when you want, if you want to. You're fighting a panic attack. Just take a deep breath, hold it for a beat… good… now let it out slowly." John nodded encouragingly. "Ok, now do it again. Good. Keep it up."

John gently placed his hand on Ollie's good arm, resting it there, and squeezing reassuringly. Ollie flinched and closed his eyes tightly. His muscles were rigid and he was trembling. As John continued to talk to him, he started to calm and gain control of himself again.

John could see the pinched, panicked look on Ollie's face start to ease. When he opened his dark brown eyes the fear had receded a little bit. His breathing slowly settled down, and John could feel that his heart rate was dropping as well.

"Ollie. Will you trust me?" John asked.

Ollie looked hard at him, having seen him warn off Big Tom. He still felt the doctor's hand on his arm, but it wasn't restraining, just steadying. He took a long minute, assessing the doctor's face and posture. He could see his intentions as if they were written on the wall. He made his decision.

He took a deep breath and loosened his grip on his right arm, moving it slightly toward the doctor. "Here," he said roughly.

Dr. John looked at him seriously and said, "Thank you, Ollie."

John reached out and gently laid his arm across the table next to him, positioning his arm so his hand was palm up. Ollie gritted his teeth as he gently cut back the shirt sleeve, exposing the deep cut, still bleeding freely, to assess it.

John took one look at it and shot a glance at Phoebe. She nodded, and got a few more supplies out of a box against the wall and brought them over.

John looked into Ollie's eyes and said, "This is going to hurt, but it is necessary. We need to stop as much of the bleeding as we can, so we can get you patched up. You ready?"

Ollie, knowing what was coming and too tired to object any more, simply nodded.

John turned to Big Tom. "Keep his arm on the table, but don't touch it directly with your hands." Laying several thick layers of bandage over the wound, he nodded to Big Tom. Like he'd done this before, he very carefully placed his hands on the bandage and started to press down hard.

Ollie grunted against the pain, but didn't try to move away from it. John nodded once, and then he and Phoebe walked swiftly to a nearby sink to scrub up under hot water.

While they were away, Ollie ground out, through the pain, "So who is this doctor?"

Big Tom said, "He's Dr. John Watson. He is the one that started these HNM Cares at the shelters."

"He started them?" questioned Ollie, a note of surprise in his voice.

Nodding, Big Tom stood silent for a minute, then looking into Ollie's eyes, he said solemnly, "He's our doctor. He takes care of his Homeless Network. He's risked himself, and walked the streets to help us in the bad weather. He tries to stay anonymous, but we know it's him who drops extra money into the tins of those in real need some nights. In return, we watch out for him."

"What do you mean? Watch… watch out for him?" Ollie asked, trying to keep Big Tom talking, to distract himself from the pain.

"He's sad."

"Sad?"

"Yeah. He lost someone close to him. Someone special to him. He was special to all of us, really, but more so to him. There are a lot of nights he can't sleep. He runs or walks the streets at night. Some of his real bad nights, we can't get him to notice us. It's almost like he's sleep walking. So, we watch over him."

Big Tom was quiet for a minute, and Ollie could tell he wanted to say more, but was searching for words.

He sighed. "I don't know how to put this right. But, he watches out for us, takes care of us. So, we watch out for him and take care of him. I don't know if he knows we do, or if he'd accept it if he did. But he's our Doc and the Homeless Network would do anything for him."

Big Tom looked at Ollie fiercely as John and Phoebe walked back. "You wanna be part of the Homeless Network there's three main things you need to know. One, you have to stay clean of drugs and alcohol. Two, if you ever see any of the Homeless Network in trouble you either help, or get help from the Doc at 221B Baker Street. Three, if you ever see him wandering, make sure he stays safe."

Ollie nodded quietly. He was surprised and impressed at the level of loyalty this one doctor had gained from a community that usually trusted no one.

He watched as Dr. John and Phoebe gloved up, and prepared to stitch him up. The doctor was extremely careful and gentle, but very, very good at what he did. With Phoebe's assistance, in a short time, he had cleaned and disinfected the deep wound and then proceeded to close it with small, neat sutures. He explained what he was going to do, and did it so swiftly and efficiently, Ollie didn't have time to get worried.

He'd been concentrating so hard on studying the doctor, he was surprised to look down and see the doctor wrapping a bandage around his arm.

"Now, keep this covered and clean. No extra movements of this arm if you can help it. As far as I can tell, there is no damage other than to the muscles, but if you want it to heal correctly, you need to keep it immobile if at all possible."

Dr. John helped Ollie get his arm settled in a sling. "Keep it in this sling for the week. If, for one reason or another, this gets dirty, or something happens, you don't have to come to my work. Just swing by 221B Baker Street. If I'm not there, Mrs. Hudson will be. She will get hold of me and I will be there shortly to help you out, if she can't on her own."

Ollie stuttered, "I… I couldn't do… do that…"

The doctor cut him off. "Yes you can, and you will. Especially if you want to play the violin again."

Ollie froze.

John smiled at his surprise. "The fingers on your left hand are calloused from the strings. I could smell the rosin on the fingers of your right hand while I was working."

Ollie blinked at him.

"Of course, though I did observe those things, it was cheating just a little bit." The doctor grinned. "Sometime just after the New Year, I saw you down in one of the Tube Stations, playing so beautifully." His face softened, his eyes betraying his sorrow, despite the small smile on his face. "I haven't heard someone play like that in a very long time," he said, almost to himself.

As he helped Ollie up, and Big Tom was getting ready to head him over for some food and a bed for the night, John leaned in close to Ollie, speaking so only he could hear.

"You lightened my load that day with your music. I don't want you to lose the ability to do that for others as well."

He smiled gently at Ollie's look of astonishment, then turned away to help the next person in line.

 

a/n: Thank you again! This chapter felt a little slow to me, but it is a set up for the next one. Hope you enjoyed. If you see any mistakes, please let me know, and drop me a quick note to tell me what you think.

Chapter Text

 

 

Two months later, the weather was considerably warmer. It was getting close to that time of year again, and John's nightmares were growing in frequency and intensity again. He'd been forced out of bed by them, and onto the streets, trying to flee the haunting memories.

He found himself at his friend's grave for the third night in a row.

He sighed and dropped his head. Resting his hand on the gravestone, he stared at the letters carved into it.

The last two nights, he'd not been able to say a word. Tonight, he made himself speak.

"Sherlock. I… This winter was the hardest, coldest one since you've been gone. Your Homeless Network was hard hit. I did everything I could. I still lost some. I'm sorry."

John took a deep breath and blew it out again. Clearing his throat he swallowed hard and continued.

"You would be so proud of your Homeless Network. They have been accepting new folks in all the time, making sure they are clean and straight. If you can believe it, I actually got your brother to work with me to get some of the younger kids through schooling so they had a chance at their dreams. Mycroft even found some individuals and couples who were willing to sponsor them, giving them a place to stay, a way to be off the streets so they could concentrate on their studies."

"Speaking of your brother, he's really not as bad as you make him out to be sometimes. Yes, I know. I can feel you rolling your eyes at me from here. But for once, I'm serious. Oh God… I hope he doesn't have your grave bugged. I'm never going to hear the end of it otherwise…"

"Mycroft, if you're listening to this, you'd better stop. Right now…" John broke off, suddenly realizing what he'd just said. For a moment he froze in surprise, then started laughing. When his laughter finally faded to sporadic giggles, he shook his head at himself.

"The last thing he should be allowed to do is bug your grave." John muttered, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

"I know you think I'm a nutter. You'd have to. If I were listening to someone talking to my grave like this, I sure would!"

John allowed the silence of the night to continue uninterrupted for a time.

"Oh Sherlock," John sighed. "It's going to be three years in a week. Three years since… since.. you – you've been gone. I still can't live in the sitting room, though Mrs. Hudson and I were able to clean up and sort most of your paperwork and files you had laying around. I can't believe all the things you had there! I filed as much as I could, and then… well… then it was just too much. I think I overloaded. I had to stop. I put all the file boxes in your room. I hope you don't mind I went in there. I didn't know where else to put them."

"Mrs. Hudson wants me to use the sitting room, now that a lot of the mess is cleaned up. I probably could. But I've had it closed off for so long. I guess I'm not strong enough. I've tried to keep going, I really have. I've even been working with Greg on some cases here and there. I think I might have even helped on a few. I didn't realize how much I missed it until I started helping him."

"I don't just miss doing cases, sitting in my chair in the sitting room, random explosions, the pacing and muttering, or the violin at 3 a.m., Sherlock. I miss you. Every day. Not one day goes by without my missing you, and without my wishing I could see you again, laugh with you, yell at you."

"I hope you don't mind the book of your cases that I wrote. I was able to go into more detail than on the blog. I actually had transcriptions of some of your deductions so I could get them in full. I had the full case files so I could fill in the details I'd forgotten. I know it was still far too little of the science of deduction for your liking, but I hope you like it."

John pushed off the gravestone, where he'd been leaning against it as he talked. He stretched and looked at his watch. He huffed to himself.

"Well, there's another night of no sleep. That's all right, though. I'd rather spend it talking to you than facing nightmares down all night."

He trailed his fingers along the edge of the stone. He smiled sadly and said, "I miss you, Sherlock."

John walked out of the cemetery and started out in a slow jog, heading towards Baker Street. He never saw Ollie keeping an eye on him from the shadows, not too far from Sherlock's grave all night. He never saw Jimmy pick him up just past the gates of the cemetery and keep up with him all the way home.

oOOooOOooOOo

Just like the two previous years, John went with Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly to eat with Marco, Anna and Anthony. They sat in the back with the family, much like the year before, rather than out front as customers. Anna cooked a family meal, and Marco refused to let them pay.

Greg watched John closely to try to determine how he was really doing. Not all of John's smiles reached his eyes. He could tell that John hadn't been sleeping well the past week. He knew too, that it didn't have anything to do with the long, difficult case they had just finished.

There were dark shadows chasing through John's eyes tonight. Greg wasn't sure that John would ever lose that lingering sense of sorrow. Little things would keep reminding him. Sherlock and John had been so inseparable, he could still see times when John would catch himself looking over his shoulder at a crime scene, as if to ask Sherlock a question.

John had told him once that he felt like part of himself was missing. At the time, Greg hadn't understood what he meant. Now that he was married to Molly, he thought he might get it a little bit. He didn't even want to think about losing Molly, because she had become his other half.

He knew that John and Sherlock had never been romantically inclined towards each other, no matter the rumors. Their partnership was different. It seemed to defy definition.

Greg missed Sherlock. He always would. But he knew that he'd never miss him as much as John did. He was proud to have called that crazy, brilliant man his friend. But John, John had called him his brother.

oOOooOOooOOo

A week after the dinner with Greg, Molly and Mrs. Hudson, John sat on the edge of his bed, his head in his hands. He'd just woken from another nightmare and just wished he could sleep. He at least had managed about three hours before he was caught in the grip of terror, but it wasn't enough. He shuddered, trying to cast off the last clinging shadows of the images that played through his mind. Just when he thought that there wasn't another way to picture Sherlock dying, his brain came up with a new one, more horrifying than the last.

Standing and pulling back his curtain, he could see the early morning light the sky. He stood there for a long time, looking out over the street with empty eyes. When he finally stirred, the sun was fully up, but hidden behind thick clouds promising rain. He slowly turned from the window and listlessly started getting ready for work.

oOOooOOooOOo

John finished up his shift at four, staying behind to clean up his paperwork. Once he got onto the street, it was closer to 5:30 p.m. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket and hit a speed dial.

"Hi Mrs. Hudson, it's me. Yes. No, I'm not coming back right away. Don't wait for me to eat. No…. No, I'm fine." He smiled slightly at the voice on the other end of the line. "I don't know how long I'll be. I may go see if I can find Phoebe or something. I just need to be outside for a while. Yes. Yes, I will. All right. Good night, Mrs. Hudson."

Ending the call, he slipped his mobile back in his pocket. He adjusted his collar against the wind and the rain that started to fall. Hanging onto his cane, he limped heavily down the street.

For the first time in over two years, John found himself in a downward spiral. He couldn't seem to break the thoughts circling in his head that he could have done something more. He should have been able to save his friend. As he walked he kept seeing dark, curly hair contrasting with pale skin. Silvery eyes looking almost blue against a deep blue scarf. High, sharp cheekbones accentuated by the upturned collar of a black coat.

John wandered for a long time. When he finally came to himself a little bit, he found himself just outside a liquor store, with a bottle of whiskey in his hand. He blinked, not even remembering going into the store for it. Tucking it into a deep inside pocket of his jacket, he kept walking without any real destination in mind.

His head tucked down against the rain that had increased in the last hour, he didn't hear his name being called.

He jumped when he felt a hand on his arm. Turning quickly, he knocked it away, bringing a hand up to defend himself, ready to take a swing with his cane in his other hand.

"Doc! Dr. John, it's me." Big Tom walked a step closer, his hands held low and out to his sides. When he saw John blink and recognition in his eyes, he heaved a sigh of relief.

"Doc, come on up under the Bridge. We've got some fires going. Come get yourself warmed up a bit," he offered.

Though he didn't want to, John found himself following Big Tom. He looked around and saw a decent sized gathering of the Homeless Network. Big Tom led him over to a fire in a barrel near the center of the group. People shifted their positions, making room for the doctor around the fire.

He stood there for a few minutes, letting the conversations drift around him, staring into the fire not even registering its heat on his face. He was unaware of Big Tom watching him with growing concern.

John turned to his left when he felt a light hand on his arm. Maggie stood there, looking up at him. Though John was on the short side, Maggie was tiny. Wisps of curly gray hair escaped from her hat and floated around her face. Her years on the streets had aged her ahead of her time, but she'd never lost her sweet disposition. As John looked down at her, her dark eyes lit up, and the lines on her cheeks and around her eyes deepened with her smile.

He couldn't bring himself to smile back. He didn't think he had it in him to try to hide behind the mask today. He turned back to the fire blindly, blinking back tears that tried blurring his sight. However, he placed his hand over Maggie's on his arm, gave it a squeeze and kept it there.

Maggie didn't try to force a conversation, she just stayed by his side until he seemed to come back to himself a little bit.

John talked with Maggie quietly, and then walked around to check on some of the others camped out under the Bridge for the night. He saw a lot of those he'd treated at the HNM Care over the weekend, so was able to follow up with them to make sure they were all right.

He turned and saw Jimmy sitting on the ground, near a support column. Kneeling down next to him he dredged up a smile from somewhere for him. He put down his bag, more of a rucksack now so he could carry some medical supplies, and checked Jimmy's wrist.

"You do know you were extremely lucky, Jimmy, don't you?"

"Well, Dr. John, it was more than luck, it was skill," Jimmy boasted.

John looked up from his job of re-wrapping his wrist and shook his head. "Nope. Blind luck. That you didn't break your neck. Jumping from one fire escape to another, over a two story drop… you're lucky you didn't get killed. You're lucky you only sprained your wrist."

John shook his head as he finished up. He looked up at Jimmy. "Jimmy, listen to me. I don't want anything to happen to you. You made it through this past winter, all of you did, though only God knows how. I don't want you to do something stupid and mess up the chances you might have to pull yourself off the streets if you want to. Please promise me you'll think and be more careful."

"Ok Doc. I promise," Jimmy said, chastened.

John nodded once and turned to put his supplies away. As he did, he realized that Ollie was sitting next to Jimmy. He nodded a greeting, and then he found himself swallowing around a sudden lump in his throat. Ollie had just pulled his violin out of his case and was tuning it, preparing to play.

John staggered to his feet, grabbing his cane. Throwing his bag over one shoulder, he started walking. Big Tom fell into step next to the doctor, asking where he was going.

Not stopping, John shook his head and said shortly, "Out, walking. I just need to move. Alone."

Big Tom stopped and let him go, watching him with troubled eyes. When he turned back to the fire, Wiggins and Raz were waiting for him. Ollie was up as well, hovering in the background.

"Hey, we can't leave him out like this. He don't look good," said Wiggins.

Big Tom ran a hand through his hair. "I know. But he doesn't want company. At least, not ours. Maybe... I wonder… Anyone know where Phoebe is?"

Raz said, "I think I seen her heading for the Arches earlier. Probably to get outta the weather."

Big Tom nodded, making a decision. "Wiggins and Raz. Head for the Arches. Spread the word that Phoebe is needed at the Bridge. Tell her to hurry and to find me."

As they sprinted away, he turned to Ollie. "I need you to go follow the Doc. You can move more quietly. Don't stop him. Not unless he looks like he's gonna do something stupid. Stick with him, keep him safe. I'm hoping he's gonna stop way down at the end there, rather than take off across the city. Least, that's what I'm counting on."

Ollie nodded, glancing at his stuff. Jimmy saw him and said, "I got your stuff, Ollie. Just help Dr. John. Please!"

Ollie nodded again, determination in his eyes as he disappeared in the direction the doctor had gone.

oOOooOOooOOo

Moving as fast as he could, Ollie stuck to the shadows. Still unable to see the doctor ahead of him, he fixed his eyes on the ground, following the distinct marks of a cane in the dirt and sand. Finally, nearing the river, he could see Dr. John.

The doctor had dropped his bag and was leaning against a cement barrier by the river that was about waist high. He faced out over the Thames, seemingly oblivious to the wind driven rain that was soaking him. Ollie saw him wipe at his face, whether it was tears or rain, he couldn't tell at that distance. He reached inside his coat, and Ollie tensed, knowing just as well as everyone, that the doctor carried a gun on him. But instead of a gun, his hand held a bottle. With a quick twist of his wrist, he broke the seal and opened the bottle. After a moment's hesitation, he put it to his mouth, tipped his head back and took several long pulls.

Wiping his mouth the back of one hand, he continued to look out over the city.

Ollie settled in for a wait, unsure of what to do other than to be close if he was needed.

oOOooOOooOOo

After all his thoughts of the day, the stress of the week, and the difficulty sleeping, when John saw Ollie tuning his violin it was all too much. It reminded him too much of Sherlock. The emotions he'd tried to hold back all day crashed in on him.

John didn't know what he'd said to Big Tom to get him to let him go, but he fled as fast as his leg would let him. When he finally got to the far end, as close to the river and the farthest from Big Tom and the others as he could get, he dropped his bag. He stepped away from it and leaned against the cement barrier between him and the drop to the river.

He stayed that way for a while. Finally he wiped his face and then, reaching inside his coat, he pulled out the bottle of whiskey. Holding it and looking at it for a moment, John didn't find himself feeling sorry for having bought it. He couldn't make himself feel guilty for not calling Greg on what was so clearly his own danger night.

After he took the first few drinks from the bottle, the rest seemed to come much easier. Even though John knew it didn't really work, he felt warmer, despite the cold rain hitting him in the face. He kept drinking, trying not to think about Sherlock.

John climbed up onto the barrier and sat down, swinging his legs over the rocks and river below. As he sat there drinking, he watched the sky. The rain intensified, and then lightning lit up the sky, and shortly after it, the crack of thunder caused everything to shake.

He was getting soaked through, but didn't really care anymore. It didn't matter. Nothing did. John took another long drink from the bottle, hoping to finally feel numb for a while.

But all he could think about was the one person he wanted to see again with all his heart.

oOOooOOooOOo

Phoebe ran in the direction Big Tom pointed her. She'd left all her things with him, so she could sprint. As she approached the far side, she could see someone crouched at the foot of a pillar. They shifted, somehow hearing her over the pounding rain and thunder. When the person turned, she realized it was Ollie.

He stood and shuffled over to her. Looking at her, he said in his gruff voice, "He's over there, sitting on the barrier. I don't know what's wrong. I think he's talking every once in a while, but I can't hear it from here. He's drinking."

Phoebe nodded. "Thank you, Ollie, for keeping an eye on him."

"I'll be nearby, if you need something." He faded back into the shadows until Phoebe couldn't see him, even though she knew he was still there.

Phoebe walked forward, gasping as the wind drove stinging rain into her face.

"John?" Realizing he couldn't hear her above the rain and thunder, she called his name louder as she came closer. Finally reaching him, she put her hand up on his rain soaked coat sleeve.

John turned and looked at her as she climbed up to sit beside him. She sat with her back to the river so she had a better chance of seeing his face.

"I can't do this anymore, Phoebe." Though he'd finished roughly a third of the bottle in his hand, his voice wasn't slurred, just cracking with emotion.

"I can't sleep. I haven't been able to do anything to distract myself from thinking about Sher… Sherlock. I can't keep going if this is all there is. It… I… it's too much and not enough."

"What do you mean, John? I don't understand."

"I feel like someone cut off half of me, scooped out my heart and took that too. Everything's gray, hardly a splash of color anywhere. And if this is what I've got to live with for forty or fifty more years, I can't do it." John's voice broke, and to try to force back the tears she could see in his eyes, he took another couple of drinks from the bottle.

"Oh John, I didn't realize it was this bad," Phoebe said, her heart aching for her friend.

"Neither did I," he whispered. "I thought I was doing ok, and then the last couple of days I realized this was all I had, for the rest of my life."

John's voice suddenly rose in volume. "God! When that bastard jumped off the building, a hospital of all things, he took me with him. He should have just pulled me over the edge with him for all the good it did!"

In a sudden movement, John was on his feet on top of the barrier. Phoebe scrambled to her knees next to him, too afraid to stand up all the way against the wind.

Breathing heavily, John raked a hand through his wet hair in frustration. Phoebe reached out to him, but he didn't see her hand.

Shaking with pent up emotion that was ready to explode, John took the bottle of whiskey and threw it as hard as he could. Before he could even hear it break on the rocks below, he was shouting at the top of his lungs.

"SHERLOCK! DAMMIT, WHY THE HELL DID YOU HAVE TO JUMP! WHY, SHERLOCK?!"

John leaned over, bracing his hands on his knees, gasping. "Oh God, Sherlock. Why? Why didn't you talk to me? Why? We could have figured it out. We always had done before. Why did you send me away and not let me help you?"

Suddenly lightheaded, he staggered. Phoebe, still kneeling on the barrier next to him, caught him around the waist and steadied him until he knelt down. Sliding off the barrier, she turned him, her hands fisted in his coat. She tugged at him again and he followed her prompting and slid off the barrier too.

John stood in front of Phoebe, his arms limp at his sides. The tears he'd been trying to hold back started streaming down his cheeks. He sank down to the ground, his back against the barrier. As the lightning flashed, a loud crack of thunder made him flinch.

Phoebe knelt down next to him, tentatively putting her arm around his shoulders, unsure whether he would welcome the contact. He relaxed ever so slightly, still staring straight ahead.

John put his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking from more than the cold. Phoebe kept her arm around him until she felt him calming down a bit.

"Come on, John." She held out her hand to him, and he allowed her to help him up. Still holding his hand, she grabbed his bag and cane, and slowly led him back toward Big Tom and the others.

Phoebe didn't see Ollie slip away into the shadows from a nearby pillar. When they reached the fire Big Tom, Wiggins, Raz and Maggie were standing around it, while others of the Homeless Network stood or sat in the background, Ollie among them.

oOOooOOooOOo

Big Tom took in the sight of the doctor that he'd learned to call his friend. He was soaked through from the rain and shivering. His blue eyes were red-rimmed and set in a pale, drawn face. Phoebe and Maggie led him close to the fire. John didn't resist as the two of them stripped off his jacket followed by his jumper, leaving him in just his t shirt.

Between Wiggins and Raz, they found a warm hoodie and jacket for him. Phoebe helped him into those and Maggie drew him even closer to the fire.

Through this all, John was passive and never said a word. Ollie had stepped forward as they helped John. When they moved him closer to the fire, Big Tom heard Ollie stifle a gasp. Without glancing at him, Big Tom knew what he'd seen.

The doctor's eyes were empty, dull and unfocused. It was like he wasn't even there.

By the time they finally got the doctor warmed up, it was nearly morning. They had gotten his own clothes dry by the fire, though his coat was still damp. All night, they kept him wrapped in blankets they'd warmed by the fire. Everyone close to Dr. John donated something, from clothing, to blankets, to tea and coffee.

This was their opportunity to give back to the doctor who had given them so much of himself.

Through it all, John never said a word. Phoebe highly doubted he was even aware of anything around him. He didn't resist anyone's helping hands, but he didn't help either.

When it was light enough, Phoebe and Big Tom exchanged a look, deciding they were going to get him home. Without moving him from where he was sitting between Jimmy and Ollie, they helped him back into his own jumper and coat. As they did, Phoebe noticed something that didn't make her happy.

"What is it?" asked Big Tom.

Keeping her voice low enough for just the four of them to hear, she said, "He's burning up. I can hear from his breathing that he's congested. The fever would account for some of the lethargy, though not all of it. The rest of this," indicating his lack of responsiveness, "I have seen only a few times with people who have undergone severe traumas. Ironically, he would be the one who would know best how to help, having been a doctor in a war zone."

She thought for a moment, and then continued, "We need to get him home, into familiar surroundings and hope that helps. And we need to tell Mrs. Hudson, not just leave him to get inside by himself."

Big Tom nodded. Usually they didn't approach the door, just waited outside for someone to come in or out, but this was an exception. This was for their doctor.

oOOooOOooOOo

To say Mrs. Hudson was surprised to see Phoebe and Big Tom assisting John to the door would be an understatement. But to her credit, she took it all in stride. When John's legs trembled and threatened to give out just getting up the steps to the front door, they asked her if she wanted help getting him upstairs.

Grateful, Mrs. Hudson led the way. After feeling John's forehead, she bypassed the kitchen, and led them straight upstairs to his room. They helped get him into bed, then quietly told Mrs. Hudson everything that had happened the night before. They let themselves out as Mrs. Hudson set about taking care of him.

oOOooOOooOOo

It took John nearly six weeks to recover from what developed into a very severe case of pneumonia. Even then, he had to take it very slowly, as his strength and stamina were shot. To say he was welcomed warmly his first time back to a HNM Care was an understatement. Thankfully that day he wasn't acting as the doctor, because he would have never been able to treat anyone. It was too much of a homecoming, as he was swamped with well wishes, hugs, handshakes, and a few tears from some.

John was overwhelmed by the outpouring of love from people he hadn't known that long. For a group of people who were reluctant to let anyone in, he realized he had been accepted as one of their own.

Phoebe saw the moment John realized how much he meant to the Homeless Network. She grinned at him when he caught her eye, the astonishment plain on his face. After only a couple of hours, Phoebe broke through the crowd of people and shooed everyone away. Just a handful of those who considered him their family were allowed to stay by him.

"You need to go home and rest now, Doc," Phoebe said softly.

John snorted. "I see I have a self appointed nurse, hmm?"

Jimmy, sitting on the floor by his feet, snickered at that. Phoebe shot him a mock glare.

Big Tom said seriously, "You do now. Maybe more than one. After that scare you gave us, you're not gonna get away with anything now."

His eyes still sad, John sighed. "I'm sorry. I – I didn't mean to…"

"Nothin' to apologize for," interrupted Raz. "You're our doctor. We wanna help you as much as you've helped us." Wiggins murmured his agreement.

John hesitated, looking around at the people circled around him. The only thing he saw in their faces were sincerity, concern and caring for him.

He gave a small smile, and nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady. Looking at him, everyone was more than satisfied that he'd gotten their message loud and clear.

oOOooOOooOOo

It took another two weeks before John was able to staff one of the HNM Cares himself. Dr. Ashwell wouldn't let him take anything at the clinic but a few short shifts a week. John didn't have the stamina for long walks, much less any running. He knew his body was still recuperating, but the inactivity was driving him crazy.

Finally, Greg called him, asking him to come in to the Yard.

When John arrived in record time, Greg just raised an eyebrow. When John demanded the case file, Greg raised both eyebrows, and he started to smirk.

John glared at him impassively but then began to chuckle, unable to keep up the charade any longer.

"Now I think I have a small inkling of what Sherlock must have felt. Now give me that file, Greg!"

Greg grinned and handed it over. As John sat down in a chair to start reading through the file, Greg opened up another one on his desk and started going over details of another case. He kept an eye on John as he worked. John was still far too tired looking and he was so pale, his skin almost seemed translucent. Compared to how he'd looked in the middle of his fight with pneumonia though, he was the picture of health.

Without looking up from his reading, John said, "You don't have to stare, Greg. I'm not going to suddenly fade away."

"So you say," Greg huffed, but dutifully turned his attention to the case he was working on. He knew John needed to read everything before talking it through, so he let him be.

After several hours of silent reading and working, John sat up straighter, thinking hard. Pulling out his mobile, he hit a speed dial and waited.

"Mycroft. I have a favor to ask."

At Greg's surprised look, John held up his finger and stepped out of the office. He paced down the hall, talking quickly, with a sharp, intense look on his face and in his stature. Greg openly watched as John ended the call, leaning against the wall about halfway down the hall. His brow furrowed, he punched in another number, waiting for someone to answer.

Walking back to Greg's office, he pocketed his mobile and asked, "Greg, can I see the suspect now?"

Greg nodded and led him down to where they were holding him. As he started to open the door, John held up his hand.

"May I speak with him privately?"

"Of course," Greg said. As John opened the door, Greg stepped back. He heard chair legs scrape against the floor as John entered. His eyes widened in surprise as he heard a young man's voice exclaim, "Uncle John!" before the door closed.

 

a/n: Yes, that did just say "Uncle John" at the end... and yes, it will be explained... in the next chapter. :D Also, in the next chapter, you will see John much more pulled together... I promise... and we see a bit of case work as well. I hope my brief explanation at the beginning about grief helped you understand what John was going through. I have been blindsided by a grief that I thought I was doing well with at odd times... and that is kind of where this came from.

Please read and review!

 

Chapter Text

A/N: And here is where it gets interesting folks! :) Hope you enjoy!

Stretching his arms above his head, John pushed his chair back from the table. He reached for the cup of coffee next to his laptop and drained it. He read back over his notes, feeling like he was missing something.

Lt. Colonel Ronald Adair had been shot and killed. Will Murray, the son of John's close friend Bill Murray, was arrested and accused of his murder. He'd been the last to see Adair, and because he'd exchanged some angry words with him, he'd been a prime suspect. However, after a little work with the lawyer Mycroft supplied, it was proven that at the time Adair was actually killed, Will had a solid alibi.

At first glance, once Will wasn't a suspect, it looked like a suicide. The bullet they pulled from his head was a soft nosed revolver bullet, the same kind his own revolver fired. He'd been found in his locked office, his recently discharged gun in his limp hand, powder burns on his fingers. However, Anderson had shown the angle of the bullet through Adair's skull made it impossible for Adair to have shot himself.

There was something about the case though that bothered John. He was sure it wasn't a suicide. That was too easy. There had to be another explanation. There was something about it that reminded him of another case he'd recently been on or perhaps heard about.

Then there were the photos of the crime scene. John had narrowed down a dozen pictures that showed a small item just hiding behind one of the desk legs. When he looked at a couple of the close ups, he could see it was a ring. However, when he went through the list of evidence, no ring was mentioned. Someone had to have come into the room and retrieved the ring from the crime scene after the pictures were taken, or it had been taken out of evidence prior to any cataloguing or lists being made.

Either option didn't make John very happy. He rubbed his face, giving a big sigh, and then leaned forward to type his theory into his notes. He was concerned there was a hole in the Yard somewhere. He hoped he was wrong, but when he thought of how Donovan had said someone had been tampering with files when she and the others had been trying to prove Sherlock's innocence, he was certain he was right.

Fishing his phone out of his pocket, John dialed Greg's number. After a couple of rings it went to his voice mail.

"Hey Greg, it's John. Give me a call back when you get the chance. I would like to discuss a couple of things about the Adair case, and have a couple of requests." Hanging up, he waved the waiter over, asking for his bill as he started putting everything back into the file folders. Saving and backing up his notes on an external flash drive, he pocketed the drive and shut down his laptop, stowing it in his bag.

Slinging his bag over his shoulder, John stood, left money on the table to cover his bill and walked out the door of the restaurant. He took a minute under the awning to turn up his collar, juggling his bag and his cane. Once settled, he stepped out onto the sidewalk, heading for Baker Street.

Before too long, Phoebe dropped into step alongside him, matching his halting pace.

"You know you shouldn't be out in this weather, don't you?" she questioned, though a smile on her face belied the scolding words.

John huffed. "Yes, I know. It's raining, and only going to get heavier. That's why I headed home when I did. But, I don't think I'm going to beat it there."

He glanced over at her as they continued down the street.

"Someone needs help, don't they?" he asked.

"Yeah. I hate to ask when you really do need to get home and get out of this weather…" Phoebe hesitated, then continued. "It's Ollie. I know you'd been asking about him, as none of us have seen him in a while. I finally saw him yesterday. He told me he just got back to this side of town about a week ago. He came back quite ill, and sounds just awful, though he wouldn't let me close enough to really assess him. He needs to get out of this weather, and the Arches or the Bridge just aren't going to cut it for him tonight. He needs to get into one of the shelters for the next couple of nights, until the next HNM Care."

John nodded and said simply, "Where."

When Phoebe told him, he realized he was just a block away.

"Go get yourself a place to stay for the night, Phoebe. Depending on how work goes, I will see you either tomorrow night sometime, or at the HNM Care. I'll take care of Ollie."

"Thank you, John," Phoebe said gratefully.

They parted ways at the next corner, and Phoebe watched John limp down the street away from her. She shook her head, thinking how lucky they were to have his help and friendship… how lucky she was.

oOOooOOooOOo

One block over, about halfway down, John could see Ollie, leaning in a doorway. He was slouched over, and looked miserable as the rain got heavier. He had a cup on the ground at his feet.

As the rain came, the crowd on the street started to thin out. John quickly slid between several couples who were headed past Ollie, and reached out with his face turned away, dropping in money as he slid past.

About a block and a half down the block from Ollie, John started getting jostled in the small group of people as he tried to pull away to head around the corner to Baker Street.

Suddenly, someone shoved their way between John and the crowd around him. John saw the flash of a knife blade, but then rough hands shoved him toward the street. Twisting his right knee he landed hard in a large puddle of water in the street. He saw another body shoved out into the street a few feet away from him, hitting their head against the ground as they landed.

John rolled over with a groan, and felt hands helping him to his feet. After realizing that the other person was still on the ground, the couple who helped John, also helped pull them over to the curb.

As John moved over to the person, he realized it was Ollie. Looking up at the husband and wife who'd helped him, he asked if they had seen what had happened.

Nodding, the man said, "This person shoved between you and someone who looked like they were after your bag."

"Why do you say that?" questioned John.

"Well, one of them had a knife out, and they looked like they were going to cut the strap of your bag," he replied.

"Though how they thought they were going to get away with that with so many around to see, I don't know," added the man's wife.

John stayed aware of his surroundings as he leaned over Ollie. He'd fallen hard and had a cut over his eye that was bleeding freely. Ollie looked blearily up at John, and muttered something unintelligible. Glancing up at the couple hovering over him, he could see two young men out of the corner of his eye. They were watching them intently, but slowly slinking back into the shadows when they realized the couple wasn't going to leave any time soon.

Thinking for a moment, John made his decision. He pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket, folded it and pressed it against the cut, slowing the bleeding. Looking up at the couple from where he still knelt on the wet ground, he said, "I'm a doctor. My flat is just around the corner. He needs patching up, and between my landlady and I, we can take care of him. But, would you help me get him there?"

The man looked at his wife, and in response she smiled and picked up John's bag from where it had fallen on the sidewalk when he knelt next to Ollie, as well as Ollie's violin case. Her husband helped John lift a very dazed and disoriented Ollie to his feet, and they each draped one of his arms around their shoulders. John paused long enough to grab Ollie's bag of belongings, and slung it over his other shoulder before they moved down the street.

Watching carefully around him, he stayed alert, monitoring the street around them. Though it wasn't far to the front door of 221B, his body was still recovering from his illness. By the time they had reached the door, his legs were trembling, and he was breathing heavily.

The man gently let go of Ollie's arm, as he started to become more alert. He looked at John with concern.

"Are you all right? Are you sure you didn't get hurt too?"

"I'm fine," John said a bit breathlessly. "I just have been sick, so I'm a bit worn out. Honestly."

The man nodded, then took Ollie's bag from John, and laid it on the floor just inside the door. His wife followed suit with John's bag and Ollie's violin.

At that moment, Mrs. Hudson bustled out of her flat, hearing John's voice at the door.

"Oh my dear! What in the world happened to you? You're soaked! And who is this?" She fluttered around John, unsure of where to start.

John gave her a weary smile. "Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. This is Ollie, part of the Homeless Network. He got bashed in the head by someone. I saw it happen and stopped to help. I just need to get him dried off a bit and patched up."

He shot a glance over his shoulder to the couple, and they held their peace. Making sure that Ollie was standing relatively steadily against the wall, John turned back to them.

"Thank you so much for your help. All of it."

The man nodded and smiled. "I'm glad we were in the right place at the right time."

"Me too," John replied as they shook hands. Bidding them a good night, the couple left and John shut the door behind them, locking it.

In an undertone to Mrs. Hudson, he said, "Could you make sure your back door is locked securely? Then I need dry towels and blankets. Ollie needs to get warmed up as quickly as possible. He's pretty ill, Phoebe sent me to help him tonight, and it's the least I can do."

"Absolutely, dear. Will you be able to get him upstairs yourself?" she asked.

When John nodded, she disappeared through her door to get the things John needed.

John stepped back over to where Ollie was still leaning against the wall. He was muttering something under his breath, and swaying slightly on his feet. In the dim light of the hall, John could see he was quite pale, and as he touched him to pull his arm around his shoulders, he could feel heat radiating off him, even though he was trembling from the cold.

"Oh, Ollie. You got yourself good and sick. Come on, let's get you taken care of." He pulled Ollie's right arm over his shoulders, wrapping his left arm around Ollie's waist.

Gently he maneuvered him to the stairs, thankful Ollie was able to carry some of his own weight. By the time they reached the top landing outside the kitchen, they were both gasping for breath. Ollie wavered on his feet, and John grabbed him more tightly around his waist, ignoring the water dripping into his eyes from his own soaked hair.

John turned slightly, looking past Ollie into the kitchen. He knew he could put Ollie in the chair by the kitchen doors, but it was cold in there, and it was too tight a space to really work in. He thought for a moment, debating taking him up to his own room, but the deep, burning ache in his shoulder and knee and Ollie's trembling legs vetoed that thought.

John raised his eyes from the floor and looked at the closed door to the sitting room. Taking a breath, he bit his lower lip and made his decision. He guided Ollie the few steps to the door, let go of his arm and slowly turned the knob of the door with his right hand.

oOOooOOooOOo

The room was dimly lit by the ambient light filtering through the sliding doors, cracked open slightly, from the kitchen. The dark curtains were securely pulled across the two tall windows, and Ollie could make out the vague shapes of different furniture.

Dr. John made sure he was steady enough on his feet to move away from his side momentarily to turn on a lamp. As it clicked on, Ollie squinted his eyes against the light, making out a sofa against the wall. He intended to take a step towards the sofa, it looked so inviting, but his legs had other ideas. His knees buckled and he tried to prepare himself for the painful crash to the floor that never happened.

Dr. John caught him around his waist and half dragged, half carried him towards two chairs near the fireplace at the far end of the room. Just as they reached the chairs, Mrs. Hudson called into the kitchen.

"John? Did you take Ollie up to your room?"

"No, Mrs. Hudson, we're in here," the doctor called back. "In the sitting room."

Ollie heard a soft gasp from her, as she pushed open the doors further between the kitchen and sitting room. She moved quickly towards them with several blankets, though Ollie could see shock and surprise in her eyes as she got closer.

Dr. John continued to support some of his weight. His legs were still traitorous, threatening to give out on him at any moment. Working together, Mrs. Hudson and the doctor were able to divest him of his long baggy coat, as well as his other layers, getting him down to his old button up flannel shirt.

As the doctor's hands started to unbutton his shirt, Ollie weakly batted his hands away, managing to mumble, "No. Wanna keep it on. Cold," through his wheezing gasps.

"All right. It's OK, Ollie. We got the wettest layers off." Turning to Mrs. Hudson he said, "Let's wrap a couple of blankets around him and get him settled. Then I'm going to start a fire, which will help him warm up faster."

Wrapped in a couple of heavy blankets, Dr. John helped him sit down in a leather arm chair. Ollie saw Mrs. Hudson's eyebrows rise towards her hairline in surprise. Looking at her from under his long, straggly hair, he realized that she was surprised that not only were they in that room, but also that the doctor had put him in that particular chair.

Dr. John, busy with the fire didn't see her expression and she headed for the kitchen, talking about making tea and heating up soup.

"Doc, 'm fine. Just need t' rest a bit. Then I can go 'n leave you be."

Turning around, certain the fire was well established, the doctor glared at him. "Ollie, don't tell me what you need. I can see it quite clearly myself. You are shivering, but have a fever. Your voice is hoarse, you're wheezing and you're out of breath. You're soaked through and far too thin, and you took a bad fall while helping me tonight, getting a nasty gash on your forehead. You need me to take care of you right now."

His voice gentled as he limped to Ollie's side, kneeling and brushing back his hair to see the cut on the side of his forehead. "Please let me help you, Ollie."

Ollie flinched away, trying to hide his face from Doc's gentle gaze. He pulled the blanket closer around his neck and lower face, trying to think. The doctor sank back on his heels by his side, giving him the space and time he needed.

His head pounded in time to his heartbeat, and his left eye stung where the blood from the cut dripped into it. He tried to force down the panic that had been rising, and finally gave a short nod, not trusting his voice to be steady.

Dr. John smiled his approval and gave his arm a quick squeeze.

"I'll be right back. I need to get my bag and med kit. Just sit here and relax for a moment."

He stood up from his crouched position, and made his way into the kitchen, pushing the sliding doors open a little further. Stopping behind Mrs. Hudson at the stove, he laid a hand on her shoulder, speaking softly to her before he headed upstairs for something. Once back down, he dropped a bag onto the kitchen table, and turned to the stairs again, retrieving both his and Ollie's things from the downstairs hallway and bringing them to the kitchen as well.

Ollie looked around curiously while he was gone. The room was neat and tidy, and had been cleaned recently, though there was a light layer of dust over everything. As his gaze roamed around the room he turned slightly in his chair to look over his shoulder at a bison head hanging on the wall with headphones on it. Blinking, Ollie smiled slightly as his eyes ran over a music stand by the window with music and a violin bow on it. Leaning against the wall nearby, a closed violin case stood on the floor.

He turned back and ran his eyes over the bookshelves, then the mantelpiece that was covered with numerous bits of paper, some stuck through with a knife. On the far end of the mantle, almost in a place of honor, stood a skull. Ollie stared at it for a long moment. Looking back to the other bookshelves, he saw that though the room had been unused for a long time, some of the books had been looked through more recently.

Puzzled, Ollie wondered why Dr. John would have cleaned the room, go in there to use the books, but not use the room itself. It didn't make sense to use just the kitchen as his main living area when he had this nice room here. He didn't understand.

oOOooOOooOOo

A pained, uneven gate marked Dr. John's reentrance to the room. Ollie tucked his face back down into the blanket from where it had emerged when he'd looked around the room. He allowed his hair to fall back over his face and hunched his shoulders against the chills that were still racing through his body.

"All right, Ollie. I need to check you over so I can see what I can do to help you feel better."

Ollie nodded and stifled a cough in the blanket before loosening his grip so Dr. John could listen to his heart and lungs and take his temperature and pulse.

When he was done, Dr. John sat back on his heels on the floor next to the chair.

"Well," he sighed, "you're working on a bad cold that may be starting to turn to bronchitis. I don't want to take any chances. We need to get that fever down, so I'm going to give you some liquid paracetamol intravenously. Then I'm going to give you a jab of antibiotics to try to prevent this from getting any worse. Once I give you those, I want to clean up your forehead. The bleeding slowed on its own relatively quickly, but I want to make sure you don't need any stitches to help it heal well."

Ollie nodded his agreement and Dr. John turned away to get what he needed from his med kit. Mrs. Hudson came in, handing Ollie a mug of hot tea, and giving Dr. John a bowl of warm water and several flannels. John thanked her as he took the bowl from her, setting it on a table next to the armchair across from Ollie.

After giving Ollie the injections, Dr. John carefully disposed of the needles and snapped on a fresh pair of gloves to clean Ollie's forehead. Ollie flinched away when he brushed his hair back from his face. The doctor stopped immediately, waiting for Ollie to relax. His eyes radiated warm care and concern as he regarded Ollie.

Ollie took a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart. Wrapping his fingers around the warm mug more tightly, he tried to still their shaking. After another deep breath, he nodded at the doctor, allowing him to clean the blood off his forehead and face and place a small bandage over the cut to keep it clean.

oOOooOOooOOo

John heaved a deep sigh as he walked back into the kitchen with the bowl of water and used flannels. Dumping the water in the sink, he dropped the flannels in the empty bowl to clean later. He frowned a little as he looked into the sitting room where Ollie sat in his chair wrapped in blankets, staring into the fire as he sipped at his tea.

Mrs. Hudson reached over touching his arm as she stirred the soup heating on the stove.

"Are you all right, dear?" she asked in a low voice.

John nodded tiredly. He leaned his hip against the counter, facing her as he kept an eye on Ollie.

Seeing where he was looking, she asked, "What is it, John?"

"There is something about him, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not sure what it is." John kept his voice low, so that it didn't carry to the other room. "He reminds me of some of the boys I used to treat in Afghanistan. If I move suddenly, he startles, almost to the point of a panic attack. He's extremely underweight, and what little I could see as I was checking him over, he has some strange scars. If I didn't know better, I would almost think he was…" John paused, not wanting to give voice to his suspicions.

"He was what?" Mrs. Hudson bit her lower lip, not liking the dark look that crossed John's face.

"I think… I hope I'm wrong, but I've seen it before. I think he may have been… tortured at some point. From what I could see, it's been a while, the scars have had time to heal… but still. It would explain some of his behaviors."

John ran a distracted hand through his still damp hair. "For some reason, he seems to trust me, once he can work through his panic. I don't know. I wish I knew his story. If I did, I might be able to help him, if he'd let me."

"John, he already is letting you help him." Mrs. Hudson squeezed his arm. "You have been able to get him here, give him medicine and look him over. He even let you take most of his wet clothes off."

Suddenly her eyes widened. "You! John Watson! You took care of him, and look at yourself!"

John ducked as she swatted at his arm. "Mrs. Hudson!" he exclaimed.

"Get. That. Coat. Off!" She started pulling at his sleeve.

John shook her off, laughing and stripped off his still dripping coat.

"Honestly, Mrs. Hudson, I didn't notice," he insisted, "I'm fine."

Mrs. Hudson just glared at him as he tried to repress a shiver.

"Take that wool jumper off, too. If you don't warm up, you're going to get sick all over again. You can't afford that. I don't have to be a doctor to know that you still aren't at your best. It may have been just over two months since you got sick, but young man, you don't recover from something like that very quickly!"

John knew her stern words were covering up the fear she felt at the thought of how close she'd come to losing him as well.

He took off his wool jumper, so he was down to his shirt sleeves, and obediently took the blanket she held out to him and draped it around his shoulders. He smiled and hugged her.

"I know, Mrs. Hudson, I know. I'm sorry. I got so caught up helping Ollie, I didn't even notice that I was still soaked through."

"I know, love. You just don't take very good care of yourself, and it scares me a bit sometimes."

John pulled away, his hands on Mrs. Hudson's shoulders. Seeing the tears shining in her eyes, he kissed her cheek gently.

"You're right. It took more out of me than I realized, getting Ollie back here. The adrenaline kicked in as I helped him, but now… I could really use a mug of tea," hinted John.

Mrs. Hudson smiled at him, and then turned to get a mug after giving him a smack on the back of his head, causing him to squawk.

John heard a cough from the sitting room and knew very well that Ollie was trying to cover up a laugh at their antics.

oOOooOOooOOo

John shot a quick smile in Ollie's direction before turning away to accept the mug of tea. Mrs. Hudson told both of them the soup would be ready in a few minutes. John nodded absently, his eyes falling on his rucksack that contained the case file and his laptop.

He opened it on the table, setting his mug down to explore the file and make sure it hadn't gotten wet. Then he opened his laptop, holding his breath as he hit the power button. Thankfully it started right up and showed it was no worse for the wear, either.

He stood at the table, leaning his weight on it. He realized his right leg had been burning and aching since he twisted it. He looked up, his eyes landing momentarily on the picture of him and Sherlock. A wave of sadness broke over him, taking him by surprise.

Trying to shake himself out of it he limped heavily into the sitting room, holding the blanket around his shoulders. He sat in his chair and started palpating his knee through his still wet jeans. He winced when he hit a tender spot.

Ollie had seen the wince, but more telling, he'd seen the hollow sadness in the doctor's eyes. He wasn't entirely sure which he was questioning when he said, "What?" to the doctor.

John shook his head, answering the most obvious.

"When I was shoved into the street, I twisted, and then banged up my right knee pretty good. It's my bad leg to begin with, but this is certainly not going to make it any better."

"Do you want some ice, dear?" Mrs. Hudson asked from the kitchen.

"In a bit," he replied. "But I'm sure you'll be glad to know this is going to slow down any attempts I have at running again anytime soon," he called back over his shoulder.

She turned to smile at him, but it dropped off her face as soon as his back was turned. She could see from the slump in his shoulders and tilt of his head that he was thinking about Sherlock. A flash of sorrow crossed her face, before she turned back to the stove.

John leaned his head back against his chair, staring into the fire. He could feel Ollie studying him. He sighed and finally met his eyes, saying, "You have a question."

Ollie replied with a statement. "You are sad."

John nodded.

"Why?"

John held his gaze for a moment to assess how serious he was before turning his attention to the fire again.

"I lost a close… close friend. Just over three years ago. I haven't used this room since then. Until tonight."

"Why? I mean… why not use it, and but… well… why now?" Ollie breathed, almost afraid to hear the answer.

"I couldn't use it before. It was too… painful… for me to come in here, without him here too. As far as tonight, I don't know. I got you up the stairs and realized the kitchen wasn't going to work to warm you up and treat you. I guess… I guess I didn't let myself think about it too long."

John rubbed a tired hand over his eyes. He pulled himself to his feet, limping closer to the fire, leaving the blanket behind. Resting his hand against the mantelpiece, he kept his face averted.

Ollie barely caught his whispered, "I still miss him. So much," before the doctor pushed away and limped back into the kitchen.

Ollie's throat tightened in sympathy, hearing such raw grief still so present. This man, who cared so much for others, who went out of his way to help the Homeless Network, who ran, walked or limped across the city to try and bring comfort where he could. He deserved so much better than this. He deserved more than grieving the loss of a friend, for more than three years.

Mrs. Hudson came to take his mug and refill it. Ollie looked down at his hands, twisting them together in his lap. He was suddenly nervous again, unsure of the path his thoughts were taking him down.

oOOooOOooOOo

John stood motionless at the end of the table, his back to Ollie, as Mrs. Hudson puttered around, fixing his tea. She stopped by John's side with a hand on his shoulder. John leaned into her hand, ever so slightly, sighing. Giving him a pat on the arm she moved away. He straightened up and stared down blankly at the table top.

Behind him, he heard Mrs. Hudson say, "Here, Ollie. I have some fresh tea…" before her voice faded away.

A split second later there was a crash and shatter of a mug hitting the floor, as Mrs. Hudson let out a strangled scream.

John was at her side in an instant, where she was leaning against one of the sliding doors to the kitchen. Her eyes were wide, and her face so pale, he thought she was going pass out.

"Mrs. Hudson! Are you all right?!" he asked, gripping her arm with his left hand.

She didn't take her eyes off the room behind him, but they started to fill with tears. John's heart rate sky rocketed as she pointed with a shaky finger over his shoulder.

Taking a deep breath, John pivoted to his right. At the same time, his right arm reached behind his back, grasping his gun. In a fluid movement, he turned and had his gun braced in both hands, aiming into the room behind him, flicking the safety off as he did.

Ollie stood by the chair, his hands extended, frozen in surprise. At least, that's what John thought at first.

Then he looked at Ollie's face.

There was something different. His hair was pushed back and tucked behind his ears. His shoulders no longer hunched over as if under a great weight. He stood tall, elegant and composed despite his tattered clothes and disheveled appearance.

John stared, his brain trying to take in what he was seeing. The high prominent cheek bones drew his gaze up to the intent, piercing silver eyes looking at him with hope.

But this is Ollie. What in the world is happening? Am I seeing things? Am I dreaming?

From a distance he heard a strangled gasp, before he realized he'd made the noise.

"What? What is going on here?" John's voice shook with anger and shock. "Who… who are you?"

Part of him was helpfully supplying one answer, but he wasn't going to listen to it. There was no way… it couldn't be… But...

"Oh. Oh…" John's breathing became labored as he tried to make sense of… but there was no making sense of this.

His throat closed, the rising lump nearly strangling him.

John's arms dropped numbly to his sides, his right hand still retaining hold of his gun. He took a couple of halting steps forward, stopping just behind his chair. He sucked in a deep breath, trying to dispel the spots dancing in front of his eyes, trying to formulate words, trying desperately to comprehend what he was seeing.

He slowly turned his head to look at Mrs. Hudson. She was trembling all over, joy and relief dancing across her face.

"You're seeing this, too?" John rasped.

"Are you really here?" Mrs. Hudson gasped.

John whipped his head around as the baritone voice he'd never expected to hear again sounded in the room.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson. I am, if you will have me." The voice had a strange, tentative quality to it that was unfamiliar, but it was still the voice he had longed to hear again, at least one more time.

John took another half step forward, resting his left hand, and a considerable portion of his weight, against the back of his chair. Feeling his body start to tremble, he rubbed his right arm across his eyes, still holding the gun tightly in his hand. When he looked back up, the impossibility standing across from him had taken a step toward him, eyes fixed in alarm on the gun in his hand.

John managed to let go of the chair and started to step around the table next to it. Making his halting way towards someone he knew was dead and buried, a wild hope flared in his chest. This was so far different than any of his typical dreams, he dared to hope that maybe this was one he wouldn't wake up from.

As he cleared the table, John started to reach out with his left hand, needing to touch, to feel if this apparition before him was really there. He took two steps.

But just as his right leg supported all his weight, the emotional strain of the last few months coupled with the painful fall that evening conspired against him.

With a fiery burst of pain, John's right knee buckled under him. He fell forward, unable to stop himself, knowing he was going to land hard. But it didn't matter. All that mattered was that voice, his voice, calling his name as the world narrowed to a pair of silver blue eyes, and then faded to black.

a/n: I know, I know... horrible cliff hanger...  Please read and review!

 

Chapter Text

A/N: Here comes at least a bit of explanation... Enjoy!

Sherlock watched proudly as John reacted to Mrs. Hudson's alarm with his soldier instincts. But seeing the shock and pain and disbelief on his friends face wiped anything but worry from his mind.

When John walked around the chair, reaching for him, still unable to say even his name, his concern deepened. John's blue eyes locked onto his, mutely pleading for this to be real.

Then John's knee buckled. Sherlock should have seen it coming, but he hadn't. John's pained cry ripped through him, galvanizing him to action. He barely made it to John's side in time to keep him from hitting the floor. Instead, John landed boneless, across his lap as Sherlock fell to his knees, wrapping his arms around his friend.

Sherlock looked down at the face of the man across his lap. He had seen him multiple times when he was "Ollie" but this was different. He could see the lines of pain, grief and stress on John's face. He saw how he'd aged, how thin and pale he was, and the gray that had crept into his sandy blond hair. His heart ached, knowing he had caused it all.

Shaking himself out of his sentiment for the moment, he determined John had passed out from pain and severe emotional shock. With a bit of struggle, he lifted him enough to get John into his chair. His hands trembled as he clutched John's upper arms and called his name.

Sherlock jumped at movement next to him, and then realized it was Mrs. Hudson. He watched in astonishment as she confidently picked up John's handgun, made sure the chamber was clear, engaged the safety and placed it carefully on the table.

Catching his look, Mrs. Hudson said, "Oh, come now. John made sure I knew how to use his gun, just in case I ever needed it. Though it's a bit heavy for me, if I have to, I can fire it with fairly decent accuracy too."

Sherlock shook his head at her and smiled. "Mrs. Hudson, you are a woman of many talents indeed."

At that she gave in to the tears that hadn't really stopped since she'd seen him. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kneeling on the floor next to him.

Keeping one hand on John, Sherlock wrapped the other arm around her, holding her close as she cried. "Oh, Sherlock! What happened? Why… why so long?" she sobbed into his shoulder.

"I promise you, Mrs. Hudson. I will explain. I'm… sorry. I'm so… so sorry…" Despite himself, Sherlock's voice cracked and broke on the last words.

Mrs. Hudson pulled back a little to look at his face. Whatever she saw slowed her tears. She pushed back his long hair with trembling fingers and gave him a kiss on the forehead.

"It's going to be all right. I've missed you so, but you're here now. Don't… don't worry about me." Nodding to John, she said, "He needs you right now, and you need him."

With that she put a hand on his shoulder and struggled to her feet, going to the kitchen. Sherlock was left to turn all his attention to the man who'd occupied his thoughts for over three years.

oOOooOOooOOo

The first thing John registered was the throbbing pain. Keeping his eyes closed and concentrating, he realized it originated in his knee and leg. What? Oh, yes. I twisted it earlier. Walking across the room, I fell. Fell? John groaned trying to dispel the haze clouding his mind. Why was it so hard to think? He felt pressure on his upper arms and vaguely heard his name being called.

John's eyes flew open as he finally remembered the last thing he'd seen. There they were. Impossible. Those distinctive eyes stared into his, as if they were drinking in everything about him they could. Though his hair was blond, it was very, very obviously Sherlock holding his upper arms, keeping him in place in his chair.

John allowed himself time for his brain to adjust to what he was seeing. Because it was Ollie in front of him. Ollie's clothes, the bandage on Ollie's head, and the extra heat radiating off of him was from Ollie's fever.

Looking at Ollie now though, he wondered why he'd never realized he was Sherlock all along. Because you weren't expecting to see him. He is (was) dead. His brain supplied him with the answer, oh so helpfully.

He realized that Ollie rarely had talked, had seemed to be afraid of him when they first met, and generally kept his face hidden behind his hair and his chin tucked into the collar of his coat.

All this ran through John's head at a dizzying speed, as Sherlock looked at him with growing concern.

"John. John, can you hear me?" Sherlock asked him, watching as John slowly became more alert and his eyes widened in shock.

John made a strangled sound in his throat, then lifted his right hand to grip Sherlock's forearm. Feeling the thin, sinewy arm under the sleeve of his shirt, he tightened his grasp, unconsciously hanging on as if he was afraid the younger man was going to disappear.

Finally he found his voice. "Ollie's… Ollie's eyes were brown."

Sherlock's intense facial expression didn't change, and a frown still furrowed his brow, but a hint of humor softened his eyes.

"Contacts," he said simply.

John nodded and shifted a bit in his chair to sit more upright. Sherlock dropped his hands from John's arms to allow him to move. But John hadn't released him from his own grasp still clenched around his arm. Sherlock changed his position slightly and waited.

"You're here. After all this time? You're here." John took a deep breath, numb and stunned.

"How… what…" John gulped, trying to figure out what he was asking. "Why now? Why tonight?"

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. Opening them again with a sigh, he said "Sentiment."

"What?" John said. Confusion, shock, and anger all warred with each other warred for dominance on his face. "Sentiment?!"

"I couldn't sit here as Ollie, enjoying your company, and not… not allow you to… knowing you didn't really know me… I shouldn't have. It's not safe yet. I can't come back yet… I am putting you in danger, but I couldn't…" Sherlock stopped, frustrated with his sudden inability to put his thoughts into words.

He nearly whispered, "Then you said you still missed your… friend, so much. And you… I…" Sherlock wouldn't look John in the face, as if he was fearful of what he would see. "I'm sorry, John. I didn't... I... I'm sorry," Sherlock gulped and stumbled to a halt.

"Sentiment," John stated. His heart was still pounding in his ears. He still wasn't sure if he was just seeing things or if Sherlock was really there. His brain was on overload. But he knew a deep, dark story lay behind those halting words.

Having overheard what Sherlock said, Mrs. Hudson bustled into the room, three mugs of tea on a tray. She set the tray down on the desk and picked up a mug, handing it to Sherlock who took it in his free hand.

"Here, John dear. We've all had a shock and a cuppa will help," she said holding out the mug to him. "The soup can wait for a little bit."

Taking a shaky breath, he ran his left hand through his hair. He looked down at his other hand which was holding onto Sherlock's forearm so tightly his knuckles were nearly white. He forced himself to loosen his grip and let go. Bracing his hands on the seat, with a stifled groan he pulled himself to sit more upright in his chair. Sherlock moved back to sit in his own chair as John accepted the mug of tea.

He closed his eyes as he took a sip, relishing the warmth, then his eyes flew back open in a panic, checking to see if Sherlock was still there.

Waiting for a sarcastic remark, knowing what Sherlock must have deduced, he was surprised when he saw nothing but understanding in his eyes.

Mrs. Hudson pulled a chair away from the desk to settle it between the two men. Looking at Sherlock, she saw he was waiting for John's questions, his reaction, something. Turning her attention to John, she could tell he was still reeling in shock, at a loss for words.

Nodding her head, she settled down with her tea in her hands and decided to ask the questions that needed answering. At least until John could start asking them himself.

"Sherlock, I know this is going to be rather blunt, dear, but John and I need to know. What happened? Why did you jump?" Her voice trembled on the last word and John flinched at the direct question.

John saw Sherlock glance at Mrs. Hudson, gratefully, before he returned his gaze to John. The depth of emotion he saw in Sherlock's eyes caught him off guard.

My God, what has he gone through to look like that?

Sherlock cleared his throat, trying to gather his thoughts. He hadn't had time to plan out what he was going to say, no time to rehearse to get the words right. He was afraid that if he wasn't able to communicate what he needed to, John would throw him out and refuse to see him again.

Tightening his suddenly trembling hands around him mug, he tried to shake off the lethargy from the fever and swallow down the sudden bout of nerves.

"I… I wasn't alone on the roof that day. Moriarty was waiting for me. He taunted me, showed me that there was never such a thing as the computer key code, like Mycroft and I were led to believe. We bought his story hook, line and sinker." Bitterness tinged his voice as he remembered Moriarty mocking him, dancing around him with a perverse joy as Sherlock tried to catch up.

"He congratulated me for choosing a high building a our meeting place, telling me that it was easier. He wanted me to complete his 'fairytale' by committing suicide and clinching the lie that I was a fraud. I was nearly ready to drop the man over the edge, but he… gave me, as he put it, added incentive to jump."

"He told me that my friends would die, if I didn't." Sherlock looked up from where his eyes had been staring at the floor and met John's tortured gaze.

John forced himself to put his mug down before he spilled it, and leaned forward. He knew he needed to hear this, even if he didn't want to. He needed to know what happened during his friend's last few moments… on the roof.

"We… we were going to… die?" John managed, nodding towards Mrs. Hudson.

"You, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade."

"Snipers," breathed John, his gut twisting, realizing the horrendous spot Sherlock had been forced into by that madman.

"Yes," Sherlock said, relieved that John was at least talking and paying attention for the moment. He was waiting, though. He knew when the shock wore off, he was going to have one hell of an angry doctor on his hands.

"I stepped up on the ledge and asked for some privacy. I needed to get him away from the edge. I also needed a moment to try to see if there was anything I had missed so I could somehow avoid it. And I thought I had him. John, I really thought I found the hole in his plan." Sherlock tried to keep the pleading out of his voice, but wasn't entirely successful.

"He said he certainly wouldn't call off the snipers, which made me realize he had some sort of recall code. He wasn't going to give it to me, but I thought if I could convince him that I was going to join him and work with him, that maybe he would recall the snipers and it would give me more time."

"He said that 'I was him' and that as long as I had him, I could save my friends. But then, he pulled out a gun and shot himself through the head, right in front of me."

John heard how lost Sherlock suddenly sounded, and he saw clearly the signs of panic, desperation, despair and determination that must have run through Sherlock that day, that were still affecting him.

Sherlock's voice had dropped low enough that Mrs. Hudson leaned forward to hear better.

"I had no other choice but to step back up on that ledge and hope that everything was in place the way I'd planned. I was ready, but then I saw your cab pulling up. I couldn't let you come around that building, or you might see something. I couldn't let you come in and up to the roof, because I couldn't be sure that you were safe from the sniper. I didn't trust Moriarty, and I certainly didn't trust his sniper."

"John, I swear. I didn't want to make you watch. I didn't want you to see that. My plan all along was to get Moriarty taken care of, or do my jump while you were still gone." Sherlock's voice grew desperate as he watched his friend trying to absorb all he was saying.

John rubbed at his eyes, trying not to relive the moment yet again. Then a phrase Sherlock has said came back to him.

"Wait. Just a minute. You said that you had a plan. How could you have possibly done anything to prepare for that? The only time I left you was when I went to see Mycroft. And then when I went to be with Mrs. Hudson, but by then you would have been up on the roof."

Sherlock nodded, proud that John picked that up. "I contacted someone once I was certain I would need assistance. Just after Lestrade left the flat the first time, when he went to go get the warrant for my arrest, remember I was examining the camera, using my computer? That's when I sent out a coded alert. I needed someone with a good sized network, who could mobilize people very quickly. I knew I wouldn't be able to do it myself well enough to ensure my survival."

"Oh no," John groaned, a wave of dread ran through him. "Mycroft was in on it."

"No John. I didn't dare go to him. I knew that Moriarty would try to use anyone I cared about against me. Your only protection was to remain in ignorance."

"Sherlock, who did you contact?"

John watched as a pained look crossed Sherlock's face.

"There was only other person I knew was smart enough to have a network of people she knew well, who she could mobilize immediately."

John closed his eyes. "Irene Adler," he sighed. "Of course. She wasn't dead. You must have saved her. And she knew plenty of people, and knew what they liked."

Sherlock found himself amazed at John's insight.

I've always underestimated him. I need to learn to stop doing that. I hope I get the chance.

"Exactly. She had seen some things in the news about the Reichenbach case, and then learned about Moriarty's arrest and upcoming trial. She was sure he was setting me up, so she flew into London. I heard from her for the first time, shortly after my meeting with Moriarty at the flat. By the time I contacted her prior to my arrest, she had multiple people in place, prepared for anything."

Mrs. Hudson took that moment to get up and head to the kitchen to dish up some soup for both of her boys. She smiled to herself, around the lump in her throat. It sounded so good to say that again.

John redirected the conversation, not wanting to think about Sherlock turning to Irene Adler, of all people, rather than himself.

"You had to jump, so obviously you had something to land on." John continued thinking out loud when Sherlock gave him an encouraging nod. "You would have had to have some of your own blood, and something to slow or stop your pulse and any involuntary movements."

Looking at Sherlock, he frowned. "Did you use some sort of paralytic?"

"I was injected as soon as someone could get to me on the lorry. I didn't trust that I would be able to keep myself still enough. Not when I knew you would get to me as quickly as you could. I was concerned I would… try to say something… or do something when you got close and… reacted… to what you were seeing. And I didn't know when you would arrive, if it would be when I was still on the street or in the morgue. If you came up suddenly and I wasn't prepared, the game would have been up."

John sat quietly, digesting that Sherlock must have deduced some of what seeing him die would have done to John. And, that his emotional reaction would strongly affect Sherlock.

"So, if you knew enough to prepare that much for it, why, why didn't you tell me? Why didn't you let me help you?" John struggled, biting his lower lip hard in the attempt to reign in his emotions.

Then he said, in a smaller voice, "Didn't you trust me?"

"John! I did trust you. I do trust you. The only way I knew you would be safe is if the world thought I was dead. As long as Moriarty's network was sure I was dead and buried, you were safe. If there was any hint that I was alive, even if I had taken out the main snipers, Moriarty is sure to have hired back up snipers."

"I wanted to tell you after, but I was afraid that if you knew I was alive, somehow you would give me away. Not intentionally," Sherlock assured him, seeing the outraged look on John's face. "Something would have slipped at some point. And you would have died. And, I… I couldn't bear that thought."

"I'm sorry, John. I'm so, so sorry."

John turned his head to stare into the fire, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze as he thought back over their conversation.

Mrs. Hudson pressed a warm bowl of soup into Sherlock's hands. John glanced up as she handed one to him as well.

"You both need to eat. No arguments. You can keep talking, but Sherlock you're quite ill, and John you're still recovering and you both got completely soaked through tonight." Her no nonsense, mothering tone made both men smile, despite the difficult conversation. She stood with her hands on her hips until she was certain they would eat, and then sat down with a sigh in her chair again.

Keeping his eyes on his bowl, John said, "Mycroft identified your… body… in the morgue. He must have been too upset to pay close attention."

He glared at Sherlock, as he snorted derisively.

"Don't! Just. Don't. You have no idea what your… death did to those around you. You don't have a clue what your brother… No. No, you have to talk to him about that. I will not break his trust in me."

John took a deep breath, and then continued as if Sherlock hadn't interrupted him. "I couldn't get into the morgue. No one let me get near the doors, they only let him in… I… wanted to see you, just one last time… but then Mycroft came out, and led me away, and I don't remember much after that."

"By the time I was coherent enough to try to go back, they said your autopsy was already done and you… your body… had been cremated."

John stopped speaking and suddenly stiffened. His spoon paused halfway to his mouth as he looked at Sherlock with muted horror on his face.

"Please, please tell me Molly wasn't involved," John nearly whispered.

Mrs. Hudson gave a soft gasp and held a hand to her mouth.

Sherlock looked between the two of them with a puzzled gaze.

"I asked her to draw about two pints of blood based on the excuse I might have been poisoned. She never asked about the volume. Earlier, she had offered to help me if I ever needed it, so I asked her for that. I knew I could do it myself, but she would be faster. I needed the blood and needed to keep her away from the morgue a bit longer, so that Ms. Adler could make sure things were set up and waiting for me. I also asked her to retrieve some letters for me, to give to Mycroft if something happened to me…"

As Sherlock's voice trailed off, he heard John's sigh of relief. Mrs. Hudson reached out and laid her hand on John's arm. He rested his other hand over the top of hers, giving her a small smile and squeezing her hand before letting go.

"Why, John? What was so important that she didn't know anything?" he questioned.

"Sherlock, after Greg's wife finally left him and divorced him, he and Molly became friends and started dating. They're married now. I can't imagine what that would have done to Greg, or any of us really, if we found out that she'd known all this time that you were alive."

"Ahhh, I see," Sherlock breathed. "No, Ms. Adler had connections with one of Molly's coworkers. Molly is bright. She would have been able to tell right away something was wrong, as soon as I was wheeled into the morgue. So her coworker kept her out, on the grounds that it was too personal. She got a glimpse of me through the door, but that was all," Sherlock reassured them. "Molly's coworker did the 'autopsy' by digitally manipulating photos, etc., and then upon my brother's request, in accordance with my will, my body was cremated, but in this case it was a body double."

Sherlock finished his soup and sagged wearily back against his chair, exhausted, but knowing there were bound to be more questions.

As Mrs. Hudson took the soup bowls into the kitchen, she overheard John say, "Over three years, Sherlock. What have you been doing all this time? Why did you say you shouldn't be here, that it wasn't safe yet?"

oOOooOOooOOo

John looked closely at Sherlock as he asked his question. Sherlock slouched down and lead his head against the back of his chair. John saw him schooling his features as he slowly closed his eyes, obviously struggling with the answer, though he had to have expected it.

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, they were darkened by shadows John hadn't seen since the battlefield. John clenched his jaw, knowing he needed to hear Sherlock out, but his stomach dropped, because he knew what that look meant.

"I… hunted," Sherlock said, then his breath hitched and he started coughing, a deep hacking cough. When he caught his breath, Mrs. Hudson pressed a fresh mug of tea into his hands, and he sipped gratefully, the hot tea feeling good on his throat.

With a sigh, Sherlock started to explain.

"Ms. Adler and I worked together to identify key individuals and 'businesses' that needed to be dismantled to bring down Moriarty's networks around the world. At times we were able to hand off the people and their organizations off to the authorities. Other times, I had to deal with them."

Sherlock didn't want to think about the things he'd had to do. They haunted his dreams often enough.

He shook himself, trying to get to a slightly safer topic.

"It took a long time. Though Ms. Adler knows many people, her resources are not as expansive as Mycroft's. We sent tips back to Mycroft, through anonymous sources, but it wasn't until after about two years that it seemed like things started really moving."

"Near the end of this past November, I was able to head from Paris to England, because I had tracked the last major person back here. He's Moriarty's second in command, and a very dangerous man."

"Here? In London?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded. "Unfortunately, I have been out of contact with Ms. Adler, and have had a hard time tying him to anything illegal. He's hiding in plain sight, but I can't touch him. He is far too vigilant. Without neutralizing him, it hasn't been safe for me to return." Sherlock scrubbed his face with his hands.

"I entered the homeless population near the end of November to establish myself, then moved down to this side of town just in time for this last Christmas. I became part of the Homeless Network, and then in trying to track down some information, I had that run in with the drug dealers, and Big Tom brought me to the HNM Care."

"John," he said, his voice miserable, "it's nearly killed me to see you so often and know that you couldn't know who I really was… and to know I was no closer to catching this man so I could come home…"

Sherlock's voice trailed off. In the ensuing silence, John contemplated all Sherlock had told him. He could read the subtext, and knew that there was so much Sherlock wasn't ready to reveal.

"The only way to get you home for good is to get this man off the streets, correct?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a tired nod. "If we get him, we might get a few other small fish, but he's the last one who knew Moriarty's orders, who would send out snipers if I showed up alive."

"What do you know about him, then? Tell me everything," John requested.

"He's ex-military, a top notch sniper. I think he was the main sniper from The Pool. Something happened to get him discharged from the army, something unsavory. He was a big game hunter for a while too. He's not brilliant like Moriarty was, but he is quite intelligent in his own right, and probably nearly as insane. He hasn't been able to hold together Moriarty's web well without him, and with my chipping away at it, it has become nearly impossible. With the London circle really the only one left standing, he had to come here. He needs to raise funds and gain trust among the criminal class again."

John sorted through the information in his head as Sherlock gave it to him. "Do you have a name or a picture, a face, something?"

Dropping his face into his hands, Sherlock nodded. "Yes, but it's not been enough. If I were able to safely go to Mycroft, he might be able to help me. I got desperate enough that I disappeared for nearly two months to the other side of town, to make contact with a few of Mycroft's people who I knew on that side of the city."

"Does he know now, that you're alive, Sherlock?" broke in Mrs. Hudson. "He needs to know, dear."

"I think he guessed, or had suspicions when I was in Paris, right before I came to London, that I might be alive. But I don't think he knew for certain. When I made contact on the other side of the city, in a completely different disguise, I passed along a message that he would know could only come from me… so I think I will have some sort of limited contact soon. Filtering through the Homeless Network at least."

John levered himself out of his chair and limped heavily to the kitchen doorway, where he snatched his cane from the corner of the table where it had been since he'd gotten home with Ollie. He turned back to the sitting room and started to pace, slowly stretching his leg as he thought.

Sherlock turned in his chair, watching him pace, as Mrs. Hudson started cleaning in the kitchen. He could tell John was thinking deeply about all the information he'd given him, but was unable to read his expression.

He watched as John appeared to come to a decision, giving a sharp nod. He turned to face Sherlock, steely determination hardening his eyes and thinning his lips.

"Ok. When we're ready, I have some favors I can call in, and some people I can mobilize. We can work with Mycroft's people and…"

"John, you can't…" Sherlock snapped his mouth shut at the glare he received.

oOOooOOooOOo

John couldn't get rid of the sense that there was something familiar about the man Sherlock described. He shook off the feeling as Mrs. Hudson came in from the kitchen to stand in front of him.

Hands on her hips, she looked at him sternly.

"You are going to go upstairs, warm up in a shower, and get into dry clothes." When John opened his mouth to say something, she interrupted him. "You're going to do it with no arguments, Doctor. You're jeans are still soaked, and you're shivering. If you get sick again, and have a relapse, this time there will be no options other than the hospital. If I have to call out Mycroft on you, I will!"

Wanly, John smiled sadly at her and held up his hands in defeat. Before he could say anything to her though, she turned her attention to Sherlock.

"And you, young man, are going to go to your room… oh, that's so good to say… and take a warm shower as well, and get into some clean clothes. You'll find everything clean and where you left it."

The two men looked at each other and shrugged in resignation. They knew when to pick their battles, and this wasn't one of them.

Mrs. Hudson all but pulled John to the door leading to the landing and the stairs to his room. He hesitated in the doorway, looking back over his shoulder at Sherlock, even though he started shivering in the draft on the landing.

Sherlock saw the hint of growing panic in his friend's eyes. He stood and walked across the room to him.

Hoping to dissuade John's fears, he picked his words carefully. "I will wait until you are done showering, John. That way you'll have hot water."

John glanced away from him, his eyes suspiciously bright. "Thanks, Sh… Sherlock."

Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock and asked him to get his wet clothes. "I will dry them out for you, so at least you won't be putting on anything wet tomorrow if you have to leave as Ollie."

As Sherlock stepped back into the sitting room to retrieve them from the floor by the fire, he kept an eye on John.

He saw Mrs. Hudson resting her hands on his shoulders, saying something in a low voice. John gave a brief nod and then wrapped her in a warm embrace. Mrs. Hudson reached up with one hand and ruffled his short hair when he rested his cheek on her shoulder. With her other hand, she gently rubbed his back.

Hearing Sherlock's steps getting closer again, John dropped his arms. Mrs. Hudson kissed John on the cheek saying, "Now go warm up, dear."

John nodded, not trusting his voice. He looked at Sherlock, his brow furrowed, then headed slowly up the stairs to his room.

oOOooOOooOOo

When they heard him start the shower in his bathroom, Mrs. Hudson turned to Sherlock, taking the couple of hoodies and his bulky coat from him.

"I know you boys are going to talk for a while yet tonight. And you need to. But please try to get some sleep too. You're bed has clean sheets on it. I just changed them two days ago." Realizing what she said, she felt her cheeks warm, and she looked down at the floor.

Sherlock put a gentle knuckle under her chin, lifting her face to meet her eyes. "Mrs. Hudson?" he queried softly.

She smiled around the tears in her eyes. "I couldn't help it, dear," she whispered. "I have vacuumed your room and changed your sheets weekly since you… died. I couldn't stop myself. John hasn't gone in that room. He couldn't. So, I knew he wouldn't notice, as long as I did it while he was gone."

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock sighed. He pulled his wet clothes away from her, dropping them on the floor, before wrapping his long arms around her. She buried her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around his too thin waist. She could feel him shaking with exhaustion and the emotions she knew he was trying to repress.

She allowed herself the luxury of a few small sobs, then pulled herself together and looked up at him. Resting her hand on his cheek, she patted it, and then took the wet clothes and headed down the stairs.

oOOooOOooOOo

John stumbled out of the shower, much warmer, but in a slight panic. His heart raced, suddenly afraid that he was going to be going back down to an empty flat, or that Ollie would just be Ollie. Swiftly drying himself off and throwing on pajama bottoms and a t-shirt, he grabbed his warmest dressing gown and cane and headed for the stairs.

Starting down the stairs as quickly as his leg would let him, he collapsed against the wall in relief when he heard Sherlock's shower start up. Finishing the rest of the stairs more slowly, he limped into the kitchen just as his mobile started to ring.

Pulling it from his coat pocket, he saw it was Greg. He took a deep breath to steady himself and answered.

"John, you got something for me on the Adair case?"

"Well, I might, Greg. Hang on, let me open up my notes so I don't forget anything. You still at work?"

"No, I'm on my way home now."

"Ok, that's probably good, as long as you can remember this. I have a hunch that I need to prove or disprove. Here's what I need."

John proceeded to explain how he needed Greg to request a full set of crime scene photos from the Adair case, through the normal channels. Then he went on to the more difficult assignment for Greg.

John took a deep breath. "I have one more thing to ask, and it will take a bit more legwork on your part. Because I can't do this one, without drawing suspicion. And this is a bit more complicated."

"All right," Greg said a bit warily.

"I need you to hand pull some case files for me. You cannot, under any circumstances, run these through the typical channels. You need to personally pull these. I need three to four cases that were either deemed suicides, or closed room murders. They may or may not have been solved. The death should have been from a soft nosed revolver bullet. I can think of at least one case that I was on that might have fit those conditions."

"Oh, Greg, one more thing… I just thought of this. Don't go back any further than November of last year."

"John, do you know how long it will take me to find these?"

"I know, Greg. I'm sorry. If you need help, make sure it's someone you trust absolutely. The best bet would be Donovon. She can tell you about some evidence disappearing she that couldn't track down to a specific person."

"John, do you think that there is a mole in the Yard? Is that what this is about?"

"Partially. That's what the pictures are about. But I think that Adair's murder may not be the first one. I don't want you to request the files through the typical channels, because I'm afraid someone will tamper with the evidence, the photos, or something and we won't be able to make connections."

John sighed into the phone, knowing what he was asking was a hard step for Greg to take. To suspect someone in the Yard of obstructing justice, and hinting that it could possibly be someone right in Lestrade's own department was difficult at best.

He could hear Greg's answering sigh. "All right, John. I'll trust you on this."

John smiled to himself, relieved. After a little more conversation, they decided to get together the following evening, along with Molly and Mrs. Hudson for dinner at the flat and then start working on the cases after.

a/n: Don't worry, there is more conversation between Sherlock and John to come. I hope you enjoyed! Please read and review. All your comments and questions help me refine the story. Thank you to those who have commented, given Kudos, etc on this story. It means more than you know! Blessings, and hope to have the next chapter ready soon.

 

Chapter Text

John shut his computer after typing a few more ideas into his notes on the case. He shivered, feeling chilled again even after the hot shower. Scrubbing his hands over his face, he leaned back in the armchair and closed his eyes for a moment. He stretched his right leg still propped up on the kitchen chair in front of him.

He tried to wrap his mind around the events of the night. Hearing thumping and muttering coming from Sherlock's room, his heart clenched as John realized how much his life had just changed. It was good, so good, but his emotions were warring with each other. Joy, shock, hurt, pain, anger and fear all struggled for dominance. He kept pushing them down and back until he could deal with them.

Lost in his thoughts, John jumped when he heard light footsteps come to a halt in the doorway of the kitchen. His eyes flew open to see Sherlock standing at the edge of the kitchen, looking the slightest bit unsure.

Of his welcome maybe?

They looked at each other for a long moment, each trying to read the other.

John had the time now, as his brain processed the idea of Sherlock being alive (Alive!), to really study his friend. He'd studied him as Ollie, but now, seeing him as himself, it all took on new meaning. His hair, much longer than normal (and blond) was still damp from his shower. He was extremely thin, and his pajama's and blue dressing gown hung too loosely on his lanky frame. His eyes were just as piercing and intent as ever, but the new fine lines that bracketed them spoke of the stress and strain of the last few years.

He was much the same, except John had seen some of the scars those clothes were hiding, and knew there were changes under the surface that he was going to have to help Sherlock through.

John, in his own turn, concentrated on letting his own guard down enough to allow Sherlock to read and deduce him. He saw a flicker of a smile dance across Sherlock's face as he did, lighting up his eyes.

"Would you like some fresh tea?"

At Sherlock's "Please," John dropped his foot to the floor and stowed his computer and the file on his lap on one of the shelves under the counter next to his chair. He pulled himself to his feet using first the arms of his chair then the counter top. He'd left his cane on the far side of the table and was determined not to ask for it.

He limped the short distance to the sink to fill the kettle and set it to boil. He stretched to reach a tin at the back of the cupboard, inwardly cursing as the all too familiar pain in his leg flared. He wobbled as pain radiated upward from his knee to his hip. He bit back a hiss as he made a grab for the edge of the counter with his left hand and slipped, unable to get a solid grip as his shoulder throbbed and his hand shook.

Feeling a presence behind him, he didn't jump (too badly) when Sherlock's hand rested lightly against his shoulder blades, helping him regain his balance, even as Sherlock reached above him to grab the tin of loose leaf tea.

John leaned back slightly into Sherlock's touch, trying to quell the emotions that were clawing their way to the surface. He trembled with the effort of reining them in. He knew Sherlock could sense his tension, but he let his hand drop once John was steady on his feet. He leaned back against the counter a few steps away, watching John intently.

John kept his eyes down as he focused on measuring out the tea leaves as the water finished boiling. The simple act of making tea was doing its job. He could feel himself starting to calm down, at least a little.

When the tea was ready, he poured a mug for Sherlock and handed it to him. Picking up his own mug, he pulled out a chair at the table and sat down.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock took his cue from John and sat down across from him. He stirred sugar into his tea and watched as John stacked some extra files to the side of the table to give them room. He wanted to ask what John had been talking to Lestrade on the phone about, but restrained his curiosity for the time being. He was more concerned about his friend.

John had held in his emotions remarkably well. He had passed out, but that was a combination of the shock and his leg collapsing under him. He had gripped Sherlock's arm so fiercely that it left the beginnings of bruises. Sherlock couldn't blame John for any of these reactions.

Because he knew it was a betrayal of John's trust, by not confiding in him that he was alive, he was waiting for the huge explosion that he was certain had to be coming. Sherlock was still trying to prepare himself for the moment John's anger would explode into a physical confrontation. If he would admit it only to himself, he was afraid John would push him away, reject him, because Sherlock had put him through too much suffering. He was sure to get the brunt of the anger, born by the hurt and grief of over three years of suffering.

He only hoped John would see how much the separation affected him as well.

oOOooOOooOOo

John could see that he was going to have to bridge the gap in conversation. Sherlock was still coiled tight as a spring. His eyes were fixed on the mug he was slowly turning in his hands. But he looked as if he was bracing for something.

"Sherlock, I need to apologize."

"What for?" Sherlock asked with a note of incredulity in his voice.

"I… I lost myself the first six months after your… death. The first three I was so numb, I hardly remember them. Then the next three months I was trying to drown myself with alcohol. Greg came to my flat and stayed with me until… until I finally… broke down." John swallowed hard. Just thinking about the pain of those months caused his eyes to burn.

He continued, his voice a bit shaky. "I can't say that I got better, or even started to get better then, but at least I wasn't doing anything as self-destructive as before. My gun had been looking pretty good to me up to that point. But after talking with Greg and Mrs. Hudson late into the night, I promised to let one of them know if I got like that again."

Horrified, Sherlock said, "John! No! You couldn't have… you wouldn't have… to have come back and find that you had…. I wouldn't have been able to…. After all I tried to do to keep you safe from Moriarty, to then come back to London and… I don't know what I would have done!"

"But I didn't know that, Sherlock. I thought you were dead," John said quietly, deliberately.

"I never expected you to take it as hard as you have. You're a soldier. You're strong. Hell, you got through Afghanistan!"

"And you saw where that left me when I was invalided home! You know the condition I was in when we met, Sherlock!" John said with a flare of anger. "At least I thought you did. You have to know that I was contemplating using my gun for something other than shooting a cabbie."

Unable to stay still with the emotions running through him, John stood and limped to the counter to warm up his tea. Holding up the pot, he gestured to Sherlock's mug.

Sherlock shook his head absently, as he tried to sort through what John had told him.

John could see the shock in Sherlock's eyes, and the minute trembling that indicated not only shock from what he'd revealed, but a fever that was still too high. Knowing he couldn't sit any longer in the bright, cold kitchen, he headed for the sliding doors.

He looked over his shoulder at Sherlock and said, "You want to come in, sit closer to the fire? It's more comfortable."

Still unable to find words, Sherlock raised his eyes to meet John's. Whatever he saw there must have been reassuring enough because he rose to his feet and followed John into the other room, stifling a cough as he went.

Before Sherlock sat in his chair, John moved a blanket so that as he sat, John could wrap it around his thin shoulders. Knowing it would be a couple more hours before he could give him any more medicine, it was the best he could do for the time being.

He walked to the fireplace and stirred it up, adding more fuel.

"How… how did you manage after talking to Greg?" Sherlock asked tentatively. He made a mental note to personally thank Greg for speaking to John when he did.

John moved stiffly and carefully to his chair from where he'd been crouched by the fire.

"I ran." He caught Sherlock's raised eyebrow and shrugged. "When the weather doesn't affect my leg, I manage pretty well. It's the combination of the emotions and the weather that really gets me. Though the last few months, have been…. Let's say, less than pleasant."

"What do you mean?"

"A few months ago, right around the three year anniversary of your… d-death, I had a pretty spectacular blow-out."

John swallowed hard and stared into the fire, rather than look at Sherlock.

"I woke up about a week after… after the anniversary… and realized this was the rest of my life. There were things that gave me a reason to get out of bed. The Homeless Network, the HNM Care, a few friends, some cases with Greg, it's all helped me keep going, but it hasn't been enough. It hasn't… hasn't been… I didn't have you."

John risked a quick glance up at Sherlock, his eyes hollow and haunted. Then he turned his face back to the fire.

"I… I got up and left for work. After my shift, I never came home. I stayed on the streets all night. It was cold and started to rain, just like…" John struggled to keep his breathing even.

"I bought a bottle of whiskey, tucked it inside my coat and continued to wander. I ended up under the Bridge – and Phoebe found me. I don't really remember much of the night, just vague impressions… though I think Mrs. Hudson later told me that Phoebe and Big Tom brought me home."

"I woke up in my room, feeling like someone set a ton of bricks on my chest, it was so heavy, and it hurt to breathe. I looked over, and imagine my surprise, when I saw Mycroft reading a book by my bedside."

John shook his head, thinking back.

oOOooOOooOOo

"Two weeks, John. For two weeks you've been out of your mind with fever. You refused to go to the hospital, and scared Mrs. Hudson to death. She didn't know what else to do but call me."

Mycroft waved his hand, indicating the room, "And you see what I had to do."

John blinked slowly and dully looked around his room. It had been transformed by monitors, an IV pump, and other medical equipment. Mycroft was sitting in a comfortable leather chair, rather than the battered wooden desk chair.

He opened his mouth to ask Mycroft what had happened. Instead of words, he started coughing so hard, black spots danced across his field of vision.

Mycroft stood and expertly slid an arm behind his shoulders, helped him sit up, and supported him as he coughed, gasping for air. He held him until he could breathe a bit easier, then slid a couple of pillows behind him to keep him more upright.

John didn't try to talk again, just watched as Mycroft held a cup of water steady so he could drink before setting it back on the table next to his bed.

He looked at Mycroft, realizing he had never seen him looking so tired, so "human" before. His shirt collar was unbuttoned, and his jacket and tie were tossed carelessly on top of John's desk. His hair was mussed, and his clothes were wrinkled and slept in.

Mycroft could see the questions in John's eyes. "It's not important, John. Rest. Go back to sleep. Everything is being taken care of. We can talk later, when you have more strength."

Picking up a flannel out of a bowl on the table, he wrung out a bit of the water. With a gentleness John had never seen before, Mycroft leaned forward and wiped his forehead with the cool cloth.

Exhausted, he closed his eyes, thoughts starting to drift, still wondering what had happened to make Mycroft look so relieved to be recognized by him.

oOOooOOooOOo

"Turns out, I managed to get myself a severe case of pneumonia. Mycroft had his personal physician take care of me. I found out later that I didn't recognize anyone, and kept calling for - for you. Mycroft himself spent more of his time by my bed than he cares to admit, though Mrs. Hudson confirms that there were at least three or four days where he never left my room, much less the flat itself."

"I guess, even when I was out of my mind with the high fever, I was calmer when he was in the room."

John gave a small smile and shook his head. "So much for his belief that 'caring isn't an advantage' thing he's always on about."

John looked up as Sherlock made a strange noise. His eyes widened at what he saw.

Sherlock had squeezed his eyes shut, pressing the heels of his hands against them.

"Sherlock? What is it?" John asked, concern for him overriding all his other rampaging emotions.

Resting his face in his trembling hands, Sherlock's voice was a near whisper. "I should have been the one there by your bed, not Mycroft. I could have been. I mean, I was here…" Sherlock waved his hand towards the windows.

"I… um. I was there that night, under the Bridge. John, I saw you. And I knew something wasn't right. But I didn't know what to do. When you went off by yourself, Big Tom sent Wiggins and Raz to find Phoebe. Then he turned to me and asked me to follow you at a distance to make sure you were safe until Phoebe came."

He heard John's sharp intake of breath. He didn't dare look to see his expression.

"As soon as I was out of sight of the others, I ran, following your path until I could see you. It was all I could do to keep from revealing myself to you right then. I didn't dare. I had no idea if you were being actively tracked by any of Moriarty's people at the time or not."

He shuddered, and clutched the blanket more tightly around himself. "If Phoebe hadn't come when she did, I might have anyway. You were leaning against one of the cement barriers right by the river's edge. You started drinking. Phoebe got there and I had to stand by and watch you climb up on that barrier. I saw you throw away the whiskey bottle, and Phoebe convince you to come down off the wall. With all the rain and thunder I didn't hear much, but I left you alone with her, once I could see you weren't in immediate danger." Sherlock didn't want to think about the words he'd heard John shout, or the other bits and pieces he had been able to hear. That night had cut him to the quick and spurred his next actions.

"I stayed near you that night while Phoebe and Big Tom took care of you. Jimmy and I were both there, though you didn't seem to see any of us. I knew they were going to get you home. Not long after that, I had to leave this side of London. When I was able to get back finally, Phoebe told me that you'd been sick for a while but were back on your feet. I didn't realize just how sick she meant."

Sherlock looked up at John over the tops of his fingers as he dragged them down his face.

John could see the lingering fear and shock, and the toll this was taking on his friend. He decided that he wouldn't tell Sherlock the words he heard Mycroft say that night. Not yet.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John," Mycroft sighed, "The last thing Sherlock asked of me was to look after you. He asked me to protect you, keep you safe. He asked me to treat you like my younger brother. I didn't understand why at the time, but he wouldn't leave my office until I promised. If I had understood, I wouldn't have let him leave."

His voice dropped to a whisper, full of guilt. "I'm sorry, John. The only thing I can do is honor my promise. I have for over three years and I won't stop now."

John cracked open his eyes, and weakly reached up and grabbed Mycroft's wrist as his hand hovered over John's face with the damp flannel. He gave Mycroft's wrist a slight squeeze. It was all he could manage at the time, but he hoped it was enough to convey his forgiveness.

Just before his eyes shut and he drifted off to sleep, John thought he saw a hint of moisture in Mycroft's eyes before he blinked it away. He barely heard the faint, "Thank you, John," as Mycroft settled back in his chair to keep watch until John was out of danger.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock watched as John got lost momentarily in his memories. He struggled to reconcile all John had shared with him, with the memory of the man, the friend, he'd clung to all these years.

He had never imagined that John would want to take his life. He never thought John would take care of himself so poorly or that he would become ill enough that Mycroft would stay and take care of him.

It shook him more than he could admit, even to himself. He thought the well liked, easy going man, who had so many friends would be all right. He never thought that John would suffer as much as Sherlock himself had.

Sherlock, overwhelmed by the emotions his thoughts stirred up, stood and took a step towards the fire. He was frustrated that he couldn't seem to subdue his feelings as well as he had in the past few years. The lockdown and control he had over them was eroding. Maybe it was finally being home, even if it was only temporarily, maybe it was being ill that impeded his efforts.

God, I wish I could stay. But no one is safe till that man is gone. I have to leave here as Ollie and hope that Mycroft can help me.

He opened his mouth to verbalize that to John and instead began to cough. One of his hands reached out and grabbed at the mantle for support. His knuckles turned white as the coughing became increasingly violent. Unable to catch his breath, his chest ached as the coughs tore through him.

oOOooOOooOOo

John jumped to his feet and to his friend's side. He slid one arm across the front of Sherlock's chest as he leaned forward with the force of the coughing. He guided him to take a step back and sit down on the arm of his chair. Unable to do anything more at the moment, John supported him and rubbed his back gently, waiting for the episode to end. As his coughing eased, Sherlock struggled to catch his breath, weak and trembling, leaning heavily against John.

John could smell his familiar shampoo and soap. He felt his heart thudding against his arm as Sherlock rested against him.

Now it was more than his eyes telling him Sherlock was there. He could smell him, he could feel him, he could hear him breathing.

He's here. He's here. He's really here! It was just a trick. He's not dead. Oh, God! This is really happening. He's not dead… Not dead, not dead, notdeadnotdeadnotdead….

John didn't notice his own breathing becoming erratic. He didn't register that his grip on Sherlock had tightened.

oOOooOOooOOo

With his head against John's chest as he recovered, Sherlock could hear John's heart rate increase. John stopped rubbing his back and tightened his arms around Sherlock, hugging him instead.

A single tremor ran through John, prompting his legs to shake. Sherlock shifted enough to snake an arm around his waist. He managed it just in time, as John's knees buckled for the second time that night. Sherlock slid from his chair to the floor to support him, too weak himself to keep both of them upright. John never released his hold, just landed on the carpet next to Sherlock in front of the fire, his arms still wrapped around Sherlock.

Sherlock turned, changing his position enough to guide John's head down and press it against his chest.

When Sherlock heard John gasp as he heard his heartbeat, something twisted inside him.

The lock twisted on a specific door in his Mind Palace. He'd forced all his emotions behind that door for over three years.

"John, it's ok. I'm here and I'm not going to leave again. Not without you. Go ahead and let it out," he said hoarsely.

The handle turned, and the door slowly started to swing open.

With one hand he pressed John's head even closer to his chest, and wrapped his other arm around him, tightening his hold on his friend.

"I'm here, John. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for what I've done to you." He felt a warm, damp patch spread on his shirt as John's tears silently started to fall.

The room was dark beyond the doorway, and stealthily the emotions started creeping out of the room into the light.

 

Guilt for hurting his friend to make him leave so he'd be safe.

Sorrow knowing he had to leave everyone behind.

Pain as he heard his friend's broken voice on the phone.

Fear as he had to step off the ledge on the roof.

Agony as he heard his friend scream his name over the rush of wind in his ears.

Bitterness that Moriarty's actions kept him from going to his friend as he begged at his grave.

Loneliness as he travelled the world without his friend by his side.

Horror at the things he had to do and endure to unravel the web.

Uncertainty as he walked into dangerous situations without his soldier watching his back.

Worry as he decided to reveal himself.

Grief, overwhelming grief, as he finally saw the full effects of his decisions on his best friend.

 

As Sherlock spoke reassurances to John, he felt him finally release the emotions Sherlock had watched him hold back all night.

The soldier, who'd tried to present a strong face to the public for so long, sobbed against his chest, holding on for dear life.

Sherlock shuddered as the sound of John's grief broke the silence of the flat. To know he'd caused such hurt reminded him all over again that he did have a heart. And it was breaking in the face of the raw pain the older man experienced as his body convulsed with the strength of his cries.

Then Sherlock finally gave himself permission. He consciously allowed every one of those emotions out, called them out.

And for the first time in just over three years, he felt every emotion in full that he'd only touched on briefly before locking them away.

He hugged John tighter as the room blurred around him.

Here… he was finally safe.

Here… he was finally home.

Here… he knew he could be himself.

Here… he could do something he hadn't since he was a boy.

oOOooOOooOOo

When John felt Sherlock wrap an arm around his shoulders, and then press his head to his chest, when he heard Sherlock's heartbeat thumping loudly in his ear, he couldn't help the gasp that escaped his lips.

All the emotions he'd been struggling to hold onto all evening swept over him. He felt, rather than heard Sherlock's voice, telling him it was all right, that he could let go, that he was sorry, and the waves of grief crashed over him. The pain from the last three years, the loneliness, and the despair poured out as he fisted his hands in the back of Sherlock's dressing gown.

Only after the weight of grief in John's chest eased a little, and his tears slowed, did he realize how tightly he was holding onto his friend. He became acutely aware of how much emotion he had just shown, and a wave of embarrassment overcame him as he remembered Sherlock's distain for such overt displays.

John forced his hands to unclench, and relaxed his grip. As he tried to ease away and straighten, he realized Sherlock's cheek was resting on the top of his head, and his arms were tightly wound around him. He became aware of the shudders running through Sherlock's body.

"Sherlock?" he questioned, his voice still thick with tears. He put his hands on Sherlock's upper arms and gently tried to pull him back so he could see his face. Sherlock didn't loosen his grasp, he just dropped his forehead to rest on John's shoulder, his hair partially obscuring his face.

"Sherlock," John whispered, a knot of worry growing in his stomach.

Sherlock just shook his head and buried his face against smaller man's shoulder. But the brief glimpse of tears caused John to wrap his arms back around Sherlock's shaking shoulders. Pulling him closer into the circle of his arms, he rubbed Sherlock's back and then ran his fingers through his long curls, smoothing them down. As he did, Sherlock let out a muffled sob.

John's eyes burned with fresh tears of his own as he held the younger man, who openly wept on his shoulder. He didn't know what Sherlock had gone through during their separation, but for him to break down so completely… he was almost afraid to even think about it.

Eventually, Sherlock's near silent sobs slowed. His breath still hitched and caught and he was trembling with exhaustion.

John continued to hold Sherlock and rub his back soothingly until Sherlock's desperate grip on him loosened, and he made a move to pull away. John moved his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and gently eased him back.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock rubbed his face with his hands, scrubbing away his tears before he looked up and met John's gaze.

Sherlock saw the evidence of tears on John's face and the haggardness that spoke of sleepless nights. But his eyes, as he looked on Sherlock, were lighter than before and held warmth despite the grief that still marked him.

He let loose a breath he didn't know he'd been holding. The openness and forgiveness in John's face finally banished the fear of immediate rejection that had dogged him all night.

oOOooOOooOOo

As for John, he could clearly see the moment Sherlock realized he wasn't going to shut him out. John gave him a quiet smile and gently squeezed his arms before he let go. He slid back across the floor, stretching out his left leg and slowly easing down his right to join it. Then he leaned his back against the front of his chair.

Sherlock mirrored his position, leaning against his own chair.

John spent a moment studying his friend's appearance. Sherlock's eyes were red rimmed and exhausted. His face, far more pale than it should be, was gaunt and drawn, aged beyond his years. But some of the shadows seemed to have been chased away. He appeared almost relaxed and at ease for the first time all night. John wondered how long it had been since Sherlock had been in a place where he felt truly safe.

"Since before I ever left home, John," Sherlock replied to his unvoiced thoughts. Stifling a cough, he nearly whispered, "Far, far too long ago."

Silence filled the flat, broken only by the crackle of the fire, as the two men rested in each other's presence.

John swallowed hard as it occurred to him that this silence wasn't oppressive, not any more. Looking up from the fire to Sherlock, he saw the same recognition reflected in his face. This stillness was healing, for both of them.

Eventually, John asked, "So was all that," John waved his hand in Sherlock's general direction, "locked up somewhere in your Mind Palace?"

Sherlock nodded as he took breath.

"Yes. I've been systematically locking them away as they occurred so I wouldn't get distracted. I didn't anticipate how strongly it would affect me when I allowed that particular door to open." Sherlock cleared his throat, and averted his eyes to look into the fire. "It seemed a good time to allow… to give myself permission."

I couldn't have done it with anyone else but you.

Sherlock turned back and looked pointedly at John. "I knew you were bottling up your emotions, from the moment you saw me… as me. I was rather concerned I would be on the receiving end of one of your rather formidable punches."

"Yes. Well. This came first, I guess." John cleared his throat. "Just to be fair, there may be a bit more emotion coming in the future. Tonight just seems a bit surreal."

We'll talk more later. Right now, you're here. It's enough. It's all fine.

Sherlock relaxed into a brilliant smile.

They could still communicate volumes, without having to say everything.

John's matching smile was just as bright.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock had finally allowed John to convince him to go to bed. Honestly, any resistance he showed was token at best. His fever had gone back up and he'd been so exhausted, John had to support him down the hall to his room.

After giving him more antibiotics and paracetamol, John tucked him in under the warm duvet. Sherlock mumbled a sleepy thanks and drifted off to sleep almost immediately.

John stood for a little while, watching as Sherlock's face relaxed in sleep. The lines of stress smoothed out, and he seemed younger, closer to his true age. Then he reached down and gently rested his hand against his forehead, feeling he was still quite warm, but not as bad as earlier. Sherlock's breathing sounded rough, but nothing he was too concerned about yet. He would keep an eye on it, just to be sure, though the bronchitis had been caught very early, and barring any complications he should be feeling better in a few days.

He eased himself down to kneel next to the bed and slipped his fingers around Sherlock's wrist. He found his pulse point, and held on for far longer than he needed to check his heart rate. Finally, he forced himself to let go and leave the room.

oOOooOOooOOo

John slumped in his chair in the kitchen, nearly falling asleep with his chin resting on his hand. He straightened up and stretched, chiding himself for sitting there, rather than going to bed. He found that just couldn't bring himself to go up to his own room.

Sherlock had been asleep for nearly three hours when John's ears picked up snatches of words and restless tossing and turning coming from his room.

And that's another reason I didn't go to bed.

He knew all too well what triggered nightmares. Opening a room in the Mind Palace might just qualify.

John moved as swiftly as he could down the hall and opened the door to Sherlock's room. The light filtering from the kitchen illuminated the side of Sherlock's bed. The duvet was half on, half off the bed, crumpled up and the sheet twisted around Sherlock's legs, immobilizing him.

John walked quickly across the room and turned on a dim lamp on Sherlock's dresser. He turned to look back at Sherlock, whose forehead was covered with a sheen of sweat. He mumbled incoherently, and looked more distressed by the minute.

John slipped into Sherlock's bathroom, grabbed a flannel off a rack and ran it under cool water. Wringing it out, he came back out and gently perched on the edge of the bed. Reaching over, he lightly touched Sherlock's arm with his hand.

"It's ok, Sherlock. You're home safe. Relax and just rest."

Sherlock turned his head from side to side, a frown marring his face.

"No, stop. Stop! Don't do this…" His voice drifted off into mumbling, then rose again. "Don't… I can't tell you anything... Oh, God…" His voice trailed off in a moan. He shuddered as if he was in pain.

John put the flannel down on the bedside table and placed both hands gently on Sherlock's shoulders, not restraining him, just trying to reassure him of his presence.

"Sherlock, it's all right. You're home now. Sherlock, wake up." He brushed the fingers of one hand across Sherlock's forehead, moving his hair out of his face.

"Oh, God, no… No!" Sherlock let out another guttural moan. "Stop… please… I don't know…" He almost whimpered, his face contorting in agony.

Sherlock's body stiffened and stilled for a terrible second, then John heard, "I'm sorry. I'm sorry, John that I didn't make it back to you... I tried." Sherlock's voice shook. Then letting out a cry of pain and terror, he pulled away from John's hands, curling up in a ball, as if he were trying to protect himself.

John knew he couldn't touch him now. He just had to hope he'd respond to his voice.

"Sherlock!" John said more sharply. "Sherlock, wake up. Wake up. It's John, I'm all right."

Sherlock didn't respond verbally, just rocked himself back and forth, trying to protect his head with his arms.

"You're safe now, Sherlock. You're home on Baker Street with me. Please Sherlock, wake up!"

Sherlock started to uncurl slightly, and then suddenly sat up with a shout that dissolved into coughs.

John reached out and caught Sherlock's shoulders to help ground him and said his name. He watched it take a moment before Sherlock registered his presence and another few seconds before those pale blue eyes sharpened their focus and really saw him.

"John," Sherlock breathed, swallowing hard and closing his eyes for a second. He covered his face with shaking hands. John let go of him long enough to fluff up the pillows behind him. Then he helped him slide back in the bed, so he half reclined against the headboard. Sherlock dropped his hands to his lap and blew out several breaths, trying to calm himself down.

John gently untangled Sherlock from the sheet and duvet and covered him back up.

Sitting back down next to Sherlock on the bed, he rested one hand on Sherlock's shoulder.  He reached over for the flannel with his other, and gently started wiping Sherlock's forehead with it. Though Sherlock still appeared shaken, John could feel his shoulder relax under his hand by the time he'd finished wiping his face.

Sherlock whispered, "Thank you," before he started coughing again. He sat up to drink the water John offered him, before leaning back against the pillows, his eyes drifting up to study the ceiling.

"I dream quite a bit more than I used to. Not all of them are pleasant," he said, his voice rasping.

John snorted, "Neither are mine."

Sherlock pulled a face. "It will take a while to readjust, I suppose. I despise dreaming. My brain does enough thinking during the day. When I finally can sleep, I would much prefer it stopped."

John leaned over and felt Sherlock's forehead with his hand again. "Your fever is still pretty high, which isn't helping with the dreams. Do you mind if I listen to your lungs since you're awake right now?"

Sherlock shook his head, so John got up and left the room to gather a few things. When he came back through the door, he dumped his medical bag on the chair under Sherlock's window. He walked back over to the bed, putting his stethoscope into his ears as Sherlock leaned forward slightly.

Once he was satisfied, he settled Sherlock back against the pillows, then sat back down on the edge of the bed next to him.

"Well, I can't give you anything for the fever yet, but your lungs aren't any worse. If we can keep up with the antibiotics and get some decent meals into you, you're body should be able to have the resources to fight this off."

"Can you try to go back to sleep?" John asked. "It's what you need most right now."

"You're exhausted," Sherlock deflected. "You haven't gone to bed. Why?"

John raised his eyebrows. "You must really be sick if you're asking questions and not deducing," he said, a smile warming his voice.

Sherlock sighed heavily, and started to turn himself toward John.

John held up his hands in surrender. He laughed lightly and said, "All right, all right. Just bloody lie down and stay still, would you?"

He sobered, and looked out the door, rather than at Sherlock, saying simply, "I can't. I – I just can't go upstairs… and I… can't… I don't..." John's voice trailed off and he felt his cheeks flood with heat.

"You've been trying to sleep in that uncomfortable, hard chair in the kitchen." Sherlock stated, more than asked.

"Rather, trying not to sleep," John mumbled under his breath, looking down at his feet now.

"You don't want to go too far away," Sherlock realized. "You can't sleep in the kitchen. I am restless and having… dreams."

Sherlock was quiet for a minute. "Stay in here with me. I feel more comfortable – safer with you nearby," he admitted.

John looked up at him, the pure honesty taking him by surprise. A few years ago, Sherlock wouldn't have been nearly that forthright about what he needed or felt. The three years apart had wrought more changes than he thought.

After looking closely at Sherlock for a few moments, he nodded abruptly, coming to a decision.

"All right." He stood and looked over at the chair his bag was on. If he got his blanket and pillow that would…

"You are not sleeping in that chair. Your back and shoulder will be hurting in two hours, and because of that fall today, your leg needs to be elevated, or at least horizontal. Sitting in a chair all night won't do that. My bed is big enough that you can take the other side without disturbing me in the slightest."

John opened his mouth before closing it again without saying anything. He stared at Sherlock, blinking, wondering if he'd heard him correctly.

Sherlock looked at him with fond exasperation. "John, it solves all the problems. We've both had a rather 'unexpected' night and need rest."

John thought about it for a minute. He knew Sherlock was right. It was the most logical decision. And it wasn't like Sherlock hadn't stayed by him when he had bad nights in the past. He knew there was no way he was going to be able to sleep, unless he was nearby.

If Sherlock needed him close too, who was he to say no?

John walked to the door and shut it before turning off the lamp on the dresser. By the time he'd moved around the bed, Sherlock had already flipped the covers back. John took off his dressing gown and climbed into bed in his pajamas. He lay down, pulling the covers up over him. Despite his initial discomfort with the idea, he found himself relaxing as he settled into the soft mattress.  The faint smell that was "Sherlock" further eased away any anxiety.

John rolled over to face Sherlock before burying his face in the pillow and inhaling deeply as he felt his exhaustion pulling at him.

He heard a faint chuckle from the other side of the bed at his actions. Then he felt Sherlock shift in the bed next to him.

"I'll be here in the morning when you wake up, John. Just sleep."

John was close enough to be able to feel the heat radiating off his friend, and he felt himself sliding toward oblivion

"G'night, Sherlock," he murmured, closing his eyes, finding peace at last.

He felt Sherlock shift in the bed again, before he heard, "Good night, John."

Just as he drifted off to sleep, John felt fingertips brush up his arm until a hand rested gently on his shoulder, as if to reassure the owner that he was truly there.

 

a/n: nothing like a little platonic bed-sharing. :) Back to the action in the next chapter, and some more people are let in on the secret that Sherlock is alive...

Hope this wasn't too OOC for you. But I figured the trauma of the years separated, for both of them and the things Sherlock had to endure, as well as John (and we've seen a lot of John's but none of Sherlock's) would account for the break downs that happened here.

Blessings and please read and review!

 

Chapter Text

The next day, Greg and Molly were let in by Mrs. Hudson, as the smell of onion and garlic floated down the stairs.

After a warm welcome, Greg climbed the stairs to the flat, while Molly went with Mrs. Hudson to help her carry a few things upstairs. When he reached the landing, he turned the corner into the kitchen, greeting John as he did.

John said, "Hey Greg, good to see you. There's beer if you want some."

"Yeah, thanks John." He helped himself to the beer, then leaned against the counter, watching John as he stirred the risotto, adding more broth a bit at a time.

"That's looks good."

"Well, let's not judge too quickly. It's been a while since I have made it," John smiled.

He and Greg chatted idly while he finished up the risotto, adding the vegetables, chicken and parmesan cheese. Mrs. Hudson and Molly entered carrying the salad and bread, and finished setting the table.

oOOooOOooOOo

Once the meal was finished, they all helped clear the table. Greg and John spread out the files from the Adair case and started talking while Molly and Mrs. Hudson started the dishes.

"All right, Greg, let's see which ones you're missing from the batch you requested today," John said, reaching for the crime scene photos.

"You seem so sure, John."

"I know. I'm sorry, and I really hope I'm completely off base," said John as they started sorting through the two separate stacks of pictures.

By the time they'd gotten through all of them, there was a small pile in the middle of the table. John watched Greg's face as he came to terms with the idea that John might be right.

John sighed as he spread them out, facing them toward Greg, who leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.

"All right, John. Tell me what we're looking at here. Give me what you've got."

John gave him a half smile and then stood at ease, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Focusing his gaze on the pictures for the moment, he walked through his suspicions.

"I think Adair knew his killer. But the killer wasn't in the room with him. He killed him from across the street, either from the top level of the fire escape or from the roof using a sniper rifle with a scope," John stated succinctly.

"But John, no one heard anything outside, the shot came from inside his office, and it was a soft nosed revolver bullet that was pulled from his head," Greg protested.

"I know it seems crazy, Greg, I do. However, these pictures help prove my theory. I did a little research of my own today, and though I don't like what I'm seeing, I don't see any other way around it. The killer is a sniper, he has an accomplice, at least for this murder, and this isn't his first one." John nodded, indicating the four other case files Greg had brought along.

"Ok, John. Let's say you're right. If it was a sniper across the way, even a silencer wouldn't be quiet enough for no one to hear it. The window was shut, and Adair's gun had been fired, with no other bullet in the room, other than the one in his head." Greg rubbed his face. "I don't understand."

"I know. I'll see if I can lay it out for you from the beginning."

Just as John started to explain, the doorbell rang.

John looked at Mrs. Hudson. "That's probably Ollie coming back. Jimmy found me on the street today and told me he'd be coming back. I'll go down and get him, but I am sure we're going to need those blankets again."

Mrs. Hudson headed for the linen cupboard, while John went downstairs to get the door.

Upon opening it he found, Ollie was leaning against the doorframe, water dripping from his hair.

Slinging one of Ollie's arms around his shoulders, John helped him through the door and over to the stairs. Sitting Ollie on the stairs for a moment, he went back and closed and locked the door. He pulled Ollie's bags from his nearly frozen hands, leaving them at the bottom of the stairs as he helped him to his feet.

Squeezing Ollie's arm, he whispered, "Thank you for coming back tonight, Sherlock."

He didn't get words, just a tired smile in return as John tightened his grip around his waist, helping support him as they slowly climbed the stairs.

When they entered the kitchen, John said, "Ollie, I have a couple of friends here tonight. Molly and Greg, this is Ollie." He would leave it up to Sherlock if he was going to reveal himself. Until then, he was Ollie.

Ollie, instead of responding to their greetings, started coughing hard enough he nearly doubled over.

As Ollie caught his breath, John asked, "Greg, can you help me get his wet layers off? Then we'll get a blanket around him, and get him into the armchair so I can look him over."

"You bet, John." Greg walked over and helped John gently take off his water logged clothes. Once Ollie was down to his shirtsleeves, Greg could see him shivering. His shoulders were hunched, and wet, dirty blond hair hung over his face.

Mrs. Hudson came bustling in at that moment and spread a warm blanket around his shoulders, murmuring, "Oh, you poor dear, you're soaked through again.

John gently guided him to the arm chair, helped him settle and pull the blanket up around his neck more securely.

Ollie huddled down into the blanket, shivering miserably, while John draped another one across his lap. Ollie nearly rested his chin on his chest, eyes closed as he concentrated on trying to breathe and not trigger another coughing fit. John eased his feet out of his wet boots and tucked the blanket in around him better.

Mrs. Hudson motioned to Molly, and they started making tea and reheating some risotto for Ollie. In the meantime, Greg sat at the table looking at the crime scene photos, while watching John with Ollie out of the corner of his eye.

John opened his medical kit and pulled out a few supplies. After injecting Ollie with liquid paracetamol and giving him a jab of antibiotics, he checked his temperature. Frowning and shaking his head, he asked Ollie's permission before listening to his lungs.

Wincing, John moved from his crouched position to sit on the kitchen chair next to Ollie at the end of the table, with his back to the sliding doors. Absently he rubbed his right knee while Ollie accepted the tea from Mrs. Hudson.

Gesturing with his head, John said, "You can put your mug on the counter there," as Molly offered Ollie a plate of food.

"While you eat that, do you mind if Greg and I talk a bit of shop?"

Ollie shook his head and then hungrily tucked into the risotto.

John smiled at Greg's questioning look. "It's not much food, but I'm glad to see him eating it. If I can get him to eat all that, and hopefully something more in a few hours, it might be enough to help him fight off the bronchitis he's got."

"How did he end up here, rather than you treating him on the streets like normal?" Greg asked. Molly put down her towel, and walked back to the table to hear the story.

"Phoebe pointed me to him yesterday, saying he was pretty sick and needed to get off the streets until the HNM Care tomorrow," John answered. "When I passed him after dropping money in his cup, he ended up inadvertently stopping someone from stealing my bag. We both got knocked into the street, and so I brought him back here to patch him up. I realized how sick he was and managed to convince him to stay the night, but he insisted on going out for the day. Mrs. Hudson and I got him to eat breakfast before he left, but from the way he's eating, that's probably all he's had today."

oOOooOOooOOo

After a few moments of shuffling through the Adair file, and opening his computer to consult his notes, John felt ready to go into the details of his theory.

Pointing at the relevant photos, having added more to the ones already scattered on the table, John started to outline his ideas.

"Here, from the tracks on the carpet, you can see that Adair was pacing. I believe he found out information on the killer, possibly that he'd killed before. Remember, he knew the man and had probably regular contact in some sort of capacity, so felt comfortable confronting him. I think Adair talked to him, informing him of his suspicions."

"Well, that was not the smartest thing to do," muttered Greg.

John stifled a smile as Ollie appeared to choke on a bit of rice and start coughing again.

"No, probably not. My guess that he hoped that the killer would be able to convince him of his innocence, because he didn't want to believe the truth. However, if his pacing is any indication, he wasn't convinced and was trying to decide what he was going to do."

Pointing at a couple of the photos, John said, "He had a fairly regular pattern to his pacing as well. After he paced the width of the room, he turned and often stopped after he took two steps."

"How do you know…"

"Right here and over here. The carpet is flatter; the width of his path back and forth is a bit wider in these two spots. Also, he was standing in one of those spots, two paces away from turn he made near the wall, when he was shot. If I were a sniper watching him, I would be able to see the pattern, even if he didn't stop after every turn, I would have been ready to take a shot once I established the pattern and where he would be. I could focus in on that point. I would even allow him to make a couple of turns in the room and make sure I was lined up right."

"He could have waited for the next day, or for Adair to return home, but if he could get him there, his problems would be over."

Greg stalled out, trying to reconcile the idea of John being a sniper with the man as he knew him now.

"Still, John… the window. Adair's window was closed and unbroken."

"But the window was open when the killer took his shot."

"Why do you think that?" asked Molly.

"I know it was because of these two photos. What does this look like to you, Greg?"

"It looks like someone rifled through the desk, or at least the papers on top, looking for something." He could already see a grin blossoming on John's face.

"Sorry, Greg. But look at the papers. If I had gone over that desk looking for something, they would most likely still be right side up. There would have been papers on the floor too, but all the way around the desk. The stacks would have been scattered, much as they are here, but not curled over or flipped upside down from bottom to top. It was windy the night Adair was murdered. His window was open, the wind came through and as it gusted, it lifted up, pushed around and flipped over the papers, knocking some on the far side of the desk, but none in front of it."

Greg sighed. "I swear, John… Ok. So, ignoring the bullet type for a moment. The window was open, Adair was shot through it. But that doesn't explain his gun going off, or the window closed and locked, as well as the door being locked by the time Royal, then Chambers and Sullivan got to it office."

"This is where the accomplice comes in. He got the call that Adair was dead. He went into the office wearing gloves. He took Adair's gun, put it in his hand and fired it out the window to get the powder burns on Adair's hand. With only seconds to spare, he closed and bolted the window and dashed out the door, locking it on his way."

"I went to the building today to talk to Chambers and Sullivan to interview them again. I caught them each separately and asked them what they saw when they rounded the corner. I got them each to try to freeze frame that moment they turned the corner. One of them thought they heard a click, but couldn't be sure. Their accounts both agreed however that they didn't see Royal moving from one direction or another. They saw him standing at the door, facing it. His right hand was on the door handle, his left pressing against the door at about shoulder height."

"But their testimonies say they saw him approaching the door as they came around the corner, John."

"I know. But if you heard a shot and came racing to find the source, then rounded a corner, seeing someone else already there, you would be likely to believe that they were doing the same thing you were."

As Greg nodded, understanding that, Molly ventured a question. "John, you have these other pictures of the crime scene that Greg didn't get today. Why? Why didn't he find them in his batch?"

"Good question, Molly," John smiled. "I think the photos are missing because the accomplice forgot something. He was supposed to pick up an item the killer dropped in the office. Either he was in a hurry and dropped it, or forgot it entirely, but it ended up in the scene photos, and most likely the evidence bags. Once the item, a ring, was taken to the Yard, it was lost in processing, and all evidence that it had even been at the scene has been deleted. Except for the ones I have. Which were almost taken from me last night when someone tried to take my bag."

"The thing is, if I weren't on this particular case, even if the ring were noticed, it is highly likely someone could identify it from these photos enough to tie it to someone. However, as soon as I saw this picture," John picked up a close up of the ring, "I knew I had seen it somewhere."

John continued, ignoring how Ollie sat forward on his chair behind Greg to see the photos as he talked. "This morning, I woke up and realized why the ring had seemed so familiar yesterday. It took me sleeping on it to place it. I went out to the Murray's this afternoon. As I talked with Bill, I handed Will some of my photos from Afghanistan. I asked him to take a look through and see if he recognized anyone there besides me or his dad."

John reached into his back pocket and pulled out two photos, tossing them onto the table in front of Greg.

"The man in the background in both of those pictures was the same man who nearly ran Will down in the hallway just outside Adair's office. If Will is right, and I think he is, this man is our killer. He's our sniper."

"Why? Are you sure? Who is he?" asked Greg as he picked up the pictures to look more closely at the tall man in the background.

"Murray and I served with him. He was in our unit for a while, though not on our specific special ops team. He rose through the ranks and commanded a team of his own. He was dangerous, very dangerous. Unpredictable temper, no morals at all, and a heck of a mean streak. Once you crossed him, he had it in for you and was going to make your life miserable. And he didn't ever let up."

"Murray and I had caught him in a number of compromising situations with locals, as well as some of our own troops. He and his thugs… propositioned… Afghani mothers and their daughters. Forced themselves on them when they could get away with it. If he could get one of our own troops on their own, especially ones he had taken a dislike to, he would 'take advantage' of his opportunity."

John's face had tensed as he spoke, and his eyes became as hard as flint.

"When we were able to gather enough evidence and witnesses, Murray and I went to our commander with all of it. Our aim was to get this man dishonorably discharged at the least, and hopefully imprisoned. In the end, someone from on high interfered. He was discharged, but not stripped of his rank. He went off and last I'd heard, he did a bunch of big game hunting, then headed for London."

Though just the character and ruthlessness of the man would have convinced John, he had one more thing.

"Greg, this guy is a sniper. A very good sniper, who had a special gun made and shipped to him while he was in Afghanistan. It's an air gun… a rifle. Equipped with a scope, he is capable of being just as accurate with it as with a regular sniper rifle. This air gun is nearly silent, but more than that, it fires soft nose revolver bullets."

John pinched the bridge of his nose. "As much as I am not thrilled to think this is our man, everything fits. The difficulty is going to be pinning it on him with enough evidence to convict him. That's why I'm hoping we find connections to him in the other cases you pulled."

"Who is he, John?" asked Greg, watching his friend's face as he stared at the table.

John lifted his chin and met Greg's gaze.

"Colonel Sebastian Moran."

oOOooOOooOOo

When Ollie started coughing, it broke the tension in the room. John quickly got a glass of water, moved behind Greg and kneeling at Ollie's side, he steadied it for him as he drank.

"Easy, Ollie. You're all right. Breathe slowly, and not too deeply." John kept a hand on Ollie's shoulder, but let go of the glass when he could see Ollie wasn't going to drop it. "Better now?"

He stood to put the glass on the counter when Ollie was done, but looked down when Ollie tugged at his sleeve.

"John, are you sure about who that is?" Ollie asked, his voice rough and raw from the coughing.

John looked down at him, his eyes widening as he realized that Ollie hadn't referred to him as Dr. John, but just John. Then he saw that he'd take out the brown contacts.

Ah. This is going to be interesting. Sherlock's made his decision.

Nodding ever so slightly to acknowledge what he'd seen, he answered the spoken question.

"Yes. I'm sure it's Moran. And let me guess, that's the name you were going to tell me last night, isn't it?"

Pushing his hair out of his face, straightening up, and clearing his throat, Sherlock spoke in his normal baritone.

"Yes, John. How did you know that the same man behind the Adair case was Moriarty's second?"

Ignoring the dead silence in the room for a moment, John said quietly, "It's what I was afraid of. I really had hoped I was wrong about this. But some of the things you said last night about Moriarty's second just clicked, and seemed to fall into place with the theories I'd started to come up with for the case. It didn't start to fall together until after you left this morning, but it was what prompted me to go see the Murrays."

Finally John turned to Greg, having felt him shift behind him. Looking at Greg's pole-axed expression, he stepped back out of the way as Sherlock got to his feet.

"I… Hello, Greg," Sherlock said, with uncharacteristic tentativeness in his voice.

Greg slowly stood and leaned slightly against the counter, trying to take in the impossible sight in front of him.

Getting his voice back, he said, "I… What? How… " Flicking his eyes to John, before staring at Sherlock again in shock, he tried again. "How long…"

"I only found out last night," John said gently.

"Sher… Sherlock. How can you be here? What happened?" Greg stuttered to a stop, then suddenly yelled, "You bloody, daft bastard! What the hell… do you know the type of hell you've put us through?!"

Greg took a jerky step towards Sherlock, his hands fisted at his side. Disbelief, anger and relief flashed across his face.

John prepared to stop Greg if he took a swing at Sherlock, but otherwise stayed out of the way. He found himself fighting his own emotions as he watched Greg cycle through his. He glanced over at Molly and saw the tears freely streaming down her face, but such happiness in her eyes. Mrs. Hudson walked over to her from where she'd been hovering by the sink during the earlier conversations. Wrapping her arm around Molly, Mrs. Hudson hugged her tight, tears in her own eyes.

Greg took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, struggling for control.

Sherlock closed the gap between them by clasping Greg's upper arms with his hands. "I'm sorry. I do know what I have put you through. I didn't want to. I had no choice. You would have been dead if I hadn't… hadn't…"

Sherlock took a deep breath and tried again. "There were snipers on you, and… and I had no choice."

Sherlock's explanation was interrupted when Greg wrapped his arms around him and squeezed him into a bear hug. Sherlock froze for a moment before he stiffly hugged him back. When Greg pulled away, despite Sherlock's reserve, he could see the warmth in his eyes as he regarded him with a slight smile on his face.

oOOooOOooOOo

John gave a quiet nod to Mrs. Hudson and gestured with his head. She slipped away from Molly's side as Sherlock walked around the table with Greg. John slid open the doors to the sitting room and bit back a laugh at Sherlock's indignant squawk when Molly hit in on the chest with the flat of her hand, then drew him into a swift hug.

As he and Mrs. Hudson rearranged a few chairs and lit the fire, John could hear Sherlock's low voice explaining in brief what happened on the hospital roof. He and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a knowing glance when they heard Greg exclaim, "Bloody Hell!"

When the fire had started warming the room, John stepped back into the doorway and asked, "Do you want to come in here to talk?"

Without a word, Sherlock scooped up his blanket from the chair in the kitchen, and walked through, settling himself in his chair by the fire. Still shaken by Sherlock's revelation Greg and Molly walked through and sat down in the two desk chairs pulled near Sherlock's arm chair, side by side.

John gently steered Mrs. Hudson into his arm chair across from Sherlock. He walked, with a slight limp, past her to stand in front of the fireplace. After staring into the fire for a minute, he turned leaning his shoulders against the mantel, so he could see the faces of his friends.

Molly's hand rested on Greg's leg, her fingers woven together with his, as her eyes flitted from his face to Sherlock's, to John's and back again taking in everyone's expression. Greg looked around at the room that was so familiar to him, yet he hadn't seen in far too long, his face a study in guilt, relief, and an echo of pain. Mrs. Hudson relaxed peacefully in John's chair, a happy little smile on her face at finally having her family back together.

Sherlock, wrapped in his blanket once again, seemed content to just sit in the quiet. He glanced around from face to face briefly before flicking his gaze to John. John gave him a tense smile and sighed.

John knew he needed to get Greg up to speed as quickly as possible, but he didn't like bombarding his friend with more information after such a shock.

"Greg, Molly, after Sherlock jumped to keep the snipers from shooting us, he eliminated all the main snipers but the one assigned to you Greg. Your sniper is most likely right in your department. You were at the Yard when he jumped, so whoever was supposed to take you out had to be close enough to do so. He couldn't search for him, for fear he would be exposed and we would all die anyway."

"He left the country to search out Moriarty's web and dismantle it, his main goal to take out the heads who would know about Moriarty's orders so we would be safe."

"When we talked last night, Sherlock shared that the last major person was in London. However, he lost contact with his resources and entered the Homeless Network as Ollie to try to gather information. He has to continue to be Ollie and can't have direct contact with anyone, even me, apart from the times I am treating him for bronchitis. Moran has to be wrapped up before he can come home for good."

Greg broke in. "But now Sherlock has an advantage. We know. We can help."

Sherlock started shaking his head. "No, it's too dangerous. If he found out you…"

John interrupted. "Sherlock, in this instance, I really think Greg is right. We can help you get rid of Moran. For once, don't shut us out. Don't shut me out. It would kill me to know you are out there trying to face down Moran without any back up. Greg and I can continue to work on the Adair case, we can work on tracking down who the sniper is in Greg's department, but we can also help you from the Moriarty angle of this. They are all inter-connected, and no matter how much you want to try to keep them separate, you know you can't."

"John, I don't want to put you into danger by you pursuing…"

"Sherlock, I've been in danger for three years and never knew it. You will not do this to me now! I swear, if you cut us out of it now, and disappear again, I will continue this investigation, and I will look for Moran and I will take him out, with my bare hands if I have to, or die trying!"

John looked at Sherlock, furious determination shining in his eyes. "I would much rather work with you than alone. I have resources that would be helpful to you, if you would let me."

Sherlock opened his mouth, then shut it again. He turned his head to stare into the fire. He didn't want to admit it, but he was terrified of involving John and Greg. It wasn't that he didn't trust them. He did, with his life. He didn't trust himself. What if he wasn't smart enough, or fast enough, what if he missed something and it cost him - everything? He shut his eyes against that thought, trying to banish it, but it hung there taunting him.

Sherlock jumped when he felt a gentle hand on his right arm. His eyes flew open to see John kneeling by his side.

"Sherlock, we are grown men who can take care of ourselves. If you will let us team up with you, we are by far stronger together than separate."

"When I said earlier that I know Moran, I meant it. He and I had a head to head run in, in Afghanistan. He and some of his cronies were threatening a native woman who was trying to protect her three children, two of them daughters. I signaled one of my mates I was going to need help, and when Moran made a move before they could come to my aid, I had to dive through that window to protect them."

With a sigh, John stood, turning to face the fire. "I tried to get him to stand down. At the time, I out ranked him, but all he saw was a simple medic. When he pushed, I disarmed him and had him on the ground. His mates fled and when I let him out from under my boot to do the same, he attacked fast enough to disarm me. My gun went flying and the only way I was going to keep that family safe was through hand to hand combat." [1]

"Sherlock, he was tough then. He will be worse now. I took some good hits, but got him down in the end, just as Murray, Roberts and Thomas came through the door. Later, I gave my report and it went in Moran's file, but didn't hinder his quick progress through the ranks. He outstripped me very quickly. My guess is he had help, even back then."

John turned back around to face the room and Sherlock could see the shadows in his eyes. He also saw the steady determination he admired. "You cannot take him down alone. You are going to have to accept our help. If you don't, you are going to get yourself well and truly killed."

He held up a hand to stop Sherlock's protest. "Not because you can't out think him, but because in an even, face to face, hand to hand combat, you will not be able to take him down. I don't think I could either, not now with this leg and shoulder. But if we coordinate, if we work together…"

Sherlock looked into John's intense, blue eyes and felt himself waver. It would be so good to work alongside his friends again. But he'd worked alone, or nearly alone for so long…

"We can do this, Sherlock, and then you can come home," John stated with confidence radiating from him.

Sherlock looked between John and Greg. They could see the moment he made his decision.

"All right. It's been too long. I agree, let's end this."

John smiled in relief and Greg let out a breath he hadn't know he was holding. John slowly stood, and limped into the kitchen. He came back with a kitchen chair and his phone.

Straddling the chair backwards, he glanced at the faces of his friends around him and felt his heart truly lighten for the first time in years.

[1] This refers to my story "John Watson, Doctor and Soldier" if you want to read the full, detailed story there.

a/n: Next comes the planning and more surprises! :) Please read and review.

 

Chapter Text

A/N: I am so sorry for the delay in posting this. I was working on and didn't like where it was at. Then I started rewriting and adding bits... but I fell asleep right in the middle of it, so had to finish it tonight! Forgive me! More reunions here! :) Enjoy!

"Step one," John said as he dialed a phone number.

"John. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Bill. You know those pests we were talking about today? I was right. The only way to get rid of them is to trap them."

"I was afraid of that. My garden is getting ruined."

John grinned, glad that Murray knew what he was talking about.

"Listen, let's do a bit of research. You concentrate on finding the best type of trap. I'll look for the best bait. We can get together in a day or two to compare notes and go from there. Does that work?"

"You bet, mate. And if you think you have found something that might work before we can get together, just give me a call."

"All right. Talk to you soon."

John finished his call, and laughed at the puzzled looks he was getting from everyone but Sherlock.

"Were you able to overhear Bill's side, Sherlock?" When he nodded, John motioned to him. "Go ahead. Explain."

Sherlock smiled and leaned forward.

"Pests had to be referring to Moran, who you had to discuss if Will identified him in your pictures earlier today. You want Bill to explore his resources to pull in some of your army mates, probably snipers or those who might have specific grudges against Moran himself. You are going to explore the best way of taking Moran down. What to literally 'bait' him with to get him to reveal himself. You will meet in a day or two to put everything together, but if you find something that could work before you can meet, or he can mobilize others from his side of things, Bill still wants in on it."

John nodded, a wide grin on his face.

Greg huffed out a laugh. "Oh, I've missed that! Though I have to tell you, Sherlock, there are times when John could give you a run for your money."

John shook his head, laughing. "No. No way could I keep up with him. It takes me too long to see how everything connects. He could have looked at the pictures tonight, flipped through the case file once, if he had to, and been able to come up with all I did. It's taken me over a week to get this far."

He turned to Sherlock. "You make those amazing leaps, ones I will never be able to make. But, I definitely have become much more observant than I used to be."

oOOooOOooOOo

John's attention shifted. "Mrs. Hudson and Molly, when it comes time for us to make our move, we are going to have you under protective custody. Preferably in a safe house."

"No, I am not going to be…" Molly started to protest. John and Greg turned to her at the same time.

"Molly, I want you both to be safe," said John. "Please. I can't stress this enough.  I know Moran. He will do anything to try to stop us. None of us will rest easy unless we know that Mrs. Hudson and you are safe."

Molly looked between John, Sherlock and her husband. As worried as she was, knowing some of what they were up against, she knew they were right. Reluctantly, she nodded.

John sighed thankfully. "We will sort that in a few minutes. Now that we are working together, we can come up with a plan to draw Moran out. I have a couple of general ideas that I thought of this afternoon. Sherlock, any thoughts?

"Yes. Show up as myself, not Ollie, at various places around the city, to get spotted by Moran's men. Once he's notified, that would focus him on finding me. Except…"

"Except we have to make sure he doesn't alert any other snipers, and ensure that the man in Greg's department is taken care of," finished John.

"Exactly," stated Sherlock.

John stood and walked over to the fireplace. The room was quiet behind him. Turning, he rested his shoulders against the mantle and looked at his friends.

"I think I know how distract Moran enough," John said with a wicked gleam in his eye. "We're going to use the Adair case and bring him in for questioning."

Over the next hour, the three men laid out plans, correcting and adjusting them as they thought of new things.

oOOooOOooOOo

When the conversation wound down, John dug in his pocket for his mobile.

"Well, I said calling Bill was step one," he said with a smile.

Holding up his mobile, he pressed a button. "Here is step two."

The phone rang once before it was answered.

"John."

"Mycroft."

"How are you doing this evening, Doctor?"

"I'm… all right. Just wondering if you were done working for the evening."

"I can be." Mycroft's voice became cautious. "Why?"

"Well, I have a couple of chairs pulled up next to a warm fire place. And I happen to have a bottle of scotch I was given a while ago. I was told it was very good."

"Oh. Would you like some company?"

"It has been a while since we've had the chance to talk. That is, if you're able to find your way here… on your own."

"I think I can manage that, Dr. Watson." Mycroft's voice was dry, but there was a hint of a smile warming it.

"I will see you in just under an hour, John."

"See you then."

oOOooOOooOOo

"Really John? Did you have to call my brother? Fire place and scotch?" Sherlock groaned rubbing his forehead.

"John?" Molly questioned, her eyes moving between John, who smiled smugly, and Sherlock, who had closed his eyes, in addition to continuing to rub his forehead.

"Sherlock disappeared while I was sick. He went to the other side of town to attempt to contact Mycroft discreetly through some of his known informants. He was waiting for word to filter back through the Homeless Network."

"If he's right…"

"If I'm right? Really, John," Sherlock interrupted.

"… Mycroft will have received a message by now that could only be from him. He will know his brother is alive. I am hoping he doesn't realize that I know about Sherlock. It would be fun to surprise him," John chuckled.

"Unlikely," muttered Sherlock.

John just stifled a snort and continued. "Just like you do, he knows I don't use the sitting room, and there is nowhere else in the house with a fire place. Also, he knows that I don't typically drink hard liquor, because of past issues."

"Of course!" exclaimed Greg. "Thus the conversation about the chairs in front of the fire, and the scotch will draw him here, and your mention of him finding his way here on his own…"

"…will make him come by himself, because he will know I was guarding what I said," finished John.

"In that case," Greg said, "we will head out. Let the long separated brothers reunite."

At Sherlock's grumble, John and Greg dissolved into laughter. Molly giggled as Mrs. Hudson stood, smacked Sherlock on the head with the tea towel in her hand.

"You behave, young man. You don't understand what your brother went through."

With a grin, Greg walked over to stand in front of Sherlock. Sherlock looked up at him through his fingers, still pressed to his forehead. Greg stood and stared at him, until finally Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and stood as well.

John, Mrs. Hudson and Molly drifted into the kitchen, carrying tea mugs and talking quietly to give the two some privacy.

John knew Greg was dealing with a whole lot of guilt, and had been for a long time, despite John's forgiveness. He hoped that Sherlock would have the decency to be sensitive for once.

The voices from the sitting room mingled in a low undertone to the chatter in the kitchen. After a short pause in their conversation, John heard Greg choke out a rough laugh.

Sherlock's voice murmured again and then Greg laughed louder. "You wish! You get healthy again and we'll see what happens once we get Moran off the street."

They came through to the kitchen together, Greg's face looking lighter and younger than it had in years. Some of the strain had melted away.

Molly walked over to him and linked her arm through his, giving it a quick squeeze. Molly looked up at Sherlock from her place at Greg's side. Though her cheeks flushed slightly, she met Sherlock's eyes earnestly and honestly. Then she loosened her hold on Greg's arm long enough to reach up on her tiptoes and lightly kiss Sherlock's cheek, whispering "Thank you," as she did, before turning away to slip into her coat that John held for her.

Sherlock looked after her, bemused as she walked out to the landing and started to head down the stairs. John followed her and Mrs. Hudson to see them out the door. Sherlock jumped slightly when Greg clapped him on the shoulder, then his attention refocused and he shook the hand that Greg was offering. Greg nodded at him, warmth in his eyes and in his handshake that Sherlock had missed more than he realized.

Then Greg turned to follow Molly.

"See you, kid," Greg called over his shoulder, flashing Sherlock another grin.

Sherlock could hear Greg at the bottom of the stairs. "Bye, John. Keep me up to speed! Good night, Mrs. Hudson. Yes, yes. I'm warm enough. Now stop fussing and go get some sleep after all this excitement!"

He heard Mrs. Hudson's voice murmur something.

There was a sudden silence, broken by John exclaiming, "Oh good grief, Mrs. Hudson!" before peals of laughter made their way up the stairs. Molly's giggles were cut off as the door closed, and John's chuckle trailed away as he doubled checked the locks on front door.

A few moments later, Sherlock heard John's gentle, "Good night, Mrs. Hudson," and her murmured response. Then his feet sounded on the stairs as he slowly made his way back up to the flat.

oOOooOOooOOo

Coming up the stairs, John found Sherlock leaning against the frame of the door between the sitting room and kitchen. A bittersweet look, almost of regret, lingered on his face.

"What is it, Sherlock?" John asked as he walked closer.

Sherlock turned away so John could only see his profile.

"You've become close while I was gone. I heard you. Everyone sounded so… happy."

"Sherlock, the reason we are is because the person who fills out this family, who left such a hole for so long is finally home." John leaned against the edge of the table, trying to see Sherlock's face better, but his eyes were shuttered, and his face carefully blank.

He sighed. "We were forced together by your death, we had to become a family, not that we weren't already friends, but we were the only ones who looked out for each other after you were gone."

John walked over and stood next to his shoulder looking into the sitting room. Nodding to how the chairs were arranged, he said, "Do you know what I saw when I stood at the fireplace tonight?"

Sherlock shook his head again, but John could tell he was listening intently.

"I saw my real family, together for the first time in over three years, and I was nearly speechless. Do you know how rare it is for someone to get a second chance at this? To get a second chance at having a family who truly loves you despite knowing you? And to… to have you back with us, finally…"

"Even when you weren't here, we were always thinking of you. We would have never known each other if it weren't for you."

John could clearly see Sherlock's doubt, in the way he held his body in the doorway, and in the shadows chasing themselves across his face.

"I know the last couple of nights have been overwhelming for you. For me too. But if you hear nothing else from all I've said, please listen to this, and believe it." John paused to make sure he had Sherlock's full attention.

"You are a key part of this family and without you we weren't complete. We need you and we want you. Nothing will change that. Ever."

Sherlock stood still for a long moment. It was obvious to John that he was still having trouble accepting what he was saying.

Frowning, Sherlock walked slowly to his bag John had brought up with him. Lifting it up onto a kitchen chair, he rummaged through it until he found what he was looking for. With his back to John, he paused a moment, then turned around.

John's eyes widened at the sight of a familiar book in his hands. Worn, its corners dog-eared and the spine broken, John could see it had been well read. Sherlock continued to look at the cover, the photo of the two of them at the end of the alley. His fingers ran lightly across it, pausing as they touched his name and then John's.

Opening the book to the right page, he smoothed his fingers over the dedication. John could see clearly his fingers had rubbed over it many, many times.

Softly Sherlock asked, "Did you mean it? What you wrote here?"

"I did," John replied, just as quietly. "I still do." Reaching out, tentative, unsure of what Sherlock needed, he rested his finger tips on Sherlock's forearm. He could feel Sherlock's tension in the rigid muscles of his arm, but he didn't pull away.

"My best friend and my brother. Always."

Feeling his throat tightening, he bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself from the stinging in his eyes. Dropping his hand, he glanced at Sherlock, but his eyes were fixed on the book in his hands. His long, blond hair shadowed his face, and he didn't look up as John moved away.

John gingerly eased his way over to the counter, ignoring his cane and placed the mugs sitting there in the sink, running water to wash them. He heard Sherlock moving behind him, and glanced over his shoulder. Sherlock gathered his belongings into his bag, picked up his coat and other clothes and boots from the corner, and walked down the hall to his room, dropping it all in there. He wandered back and shuffled through the photos on the table, picking some up to examine them more closely.

John rinsed the last mug and turned to watch him.

He smiled, seeing Sherlock's eyes focused and intent on the evidence before him.

"So, did I miss anything glaringly obvious? The more I look at them, the more I see, but it's taken me far too long and cost me being able to see any traces of a sniper, or catching Moran out before he could create an alibi. I went to the crime scene, but it wasn't fresh enough for me to pick up anything new. I had to rely on the photographs that Anderson and Hopkins took."

"No, John. You did very well, very well indeed." Sherlock smiled, seeming to be over the bit of insecurity he'd been showing before. "Though I wouldn't have looked at the pacing from your unique viewpoint as a special ops sniper."

John chuckled, "No, you would have been in that office and seen it immediately. I swear I heard you saying in my head, 'When you have eliminated all which is impossible, then whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.' The idea of a sniper was what I was left with."

Sherlock flashed him an amused grin.

"Yeah, there were a couple of times I caught myself telling your voice in my head to just 'shut up' as you were getting a bit annoying."

They broke into shared laughter.

As John's giggles eased, Sherlock's silvery eyes gleamed at him with a warmth and affection he rarely let show so freely.

oOOooOOooOOo

John heard the front door open and the distinct sound of it thumping closed again, before he heard the lock engage. Quiet tapping of expensive shoes on the stairs stopped on the landing outside the kitchen door.

John looked up from the papers he was holding on one of the new case files from Greg, and smiled at the sight of Mycroft leaning on his ever present umbrella in the doorway.

"Come in, Mycroft," he said, putting down the papers and walking around the table to greet him.

Warmly returning John's handshake, Mycroft gave a small, genuine smile. "John."

"How is the Adair case coming?" he asked.

John rolled his eyes. Of course he'd know. His voice filled with amusement, he said, "I have figured out it was a sniper, and I am certain of who it is, though I still need to get enough evidence to prove it."

Mycroft nodded absently as his sharp eyes scanned the room, the table, and the files, before settling on John.

John leaned against the edge of the table, his arms crossed in front of him, but completely relaxed. Though circles still shadowed his eyes, they were warm with amusement crinkling the corners. He knew he was being observed, and was allowing it.

Mycroft could see something was different, but it was so subtle, he couldn't tell if it was the revelations of the case, or the long day of errands and back and forth, or the time with the Lestrades and Mrs. Hudson, or something else he couldn't pinpoint.

Impossible man. Still he manages to hide things from me. I know he's hiding something, but that's all.

He barely kept himself from rolling his eyes as John grinned at him. He finally allowed himself a small smile when John began to chuckle.

"Mycroft, stop analyzing everything for a moment and relax. There is no immediate danger."

"I am assuming you have a reason for the cryptic phone call then?" Mycroft questioned.

"I do," John stated, straightening from the table. "But, why don't you make yourself more comfortable? I need to go and change. I need to ice my knee again, and these jeans are rather uncomfortable for that."

Mycroft looked around the kitchen before sighing.

John stifled a snort, then moved over to the sliding doors he'd closed a few minutes before Mycroft arrived. Gently opening them, he gestured to Mycroft, inviting him in to the warm, fire-lit room.

Mycroft took a step into the room and stopped. He looked at John, questions in his eyes.

"I'll be right back, Mycroft. I'll explain everything when I get back down. I promise."

Mycroft sighed, resigned to the fact that John wasn't going to tell him anything yet.

John turned and walked back through the kitchen, heading for the stairs. As he did, Sherlock slipped silently down the hall. Now in his familiar pajamas with his blue dressing gown cinched around his waist, he looked more like himself. John smiled at him, but then mouthed "Be gentle," as a warning.

Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement, and turned his attention to his brother in the other room. He waited in silence as John's feet sounded on the stairs.

oOOooOOooOOo

His brother stood with his hand resting against the back of John's chair, looking around the room, at Sherlock's chair, and then the fire. At first glance, Mycroft seemed unchanged. However, Sherlock could detect a faint difference in his posture from when he'd last seen him. He wasn't quite certain what it was.

Ah. He's relaxed here. Perplexed about John using this room, but relaxed in his presence. He was obviously pleased to see John when he came in. He actually gave him a "real" smile. And John was comfortable with him as well. That explains what John meant earlier about not betraying Mycroft's trust in him. They have actually become friends. Unexpected.

Sherlock stepped into the room behind his brother, not making an effort to hide his presence.

Mycroft stiffened, his whole body tense.

As Sherlock stepped closer, he could see just a portion of his brother's face.

"Good evening, Mycroft," he said quietly.

He could see Mycroft close his eyes and his shoulders sagged with something that looked like relief.

"Sherlock," he breathed, trying to regain any loss of composure.

Sherlock moved around him, until he could fully see Mycroft's face.

"Did you get my message?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft nodded, clearing his throat before he spoke. "Yes. Moments before John's call. I didn't anticipate I would see you so quickly."

"Neither did I. Hopefully, I haven't put any of you at greater risk."

"You have been the one feeding us the leads," Mycroft stated.

Sherlock nodded, working on reading between the lines, studying his brother closely. He was surprised by his brother's loss of weight and the added lines of stress on his face. His eyes looked tired.

Was that sadness he was seeing too? Was I really so wrong in reading my brother? I didn't expect this. Any of this. John and Greg and Mrs. Hudson were right. Mycroft was affected by my "death." But Mycroft has always been so strong. He's never needed me before, never wanted me before. I don't understand.

oOOooOOooOOo

Without conscious thought, Mycroft stepped closer to Sherlock. He locked eyes with his younger brother

"I missed you, Sherlock," slipped out before he could stop it. Suddenly self-conscious of having made what was such an overt display of emotion for him, Mycroft turned abruptly to look into the fire.  He didn't want to see the mockery sure to be in Sherlock's eyes.

It left him utterly unprepared for Sherlock slowly resting his hand on his shoulder and saying quietly, "I missed you too, Myc."

Mycroft dropped his head and a minute tremor ran through him as the warmth of his brother's hand soaked through his suit jacket. Clenching his jaw, his eyes focused on the patterns of the rug as he attempted to reign in the errant emotions.

"Don't, please. Myc, just… don't," Sherlock barely breathed into the silence of the room.

Mycroft looked up and turned toward him, surprised at Sherlock's request. Under his brother's searching gaze, he gave up his struggle to put up his crumbling defenses.

He was amazed to find that Sherlock had taken down his own walls. He was consciously inviting Mycroft to see just how hard the past few years had been for him as well. Mycroft could see the regret and guilt he carried. But there was more creating the darkness in his brother's eyes than his absence and hunting criminals would account for.

He was pulled from his own observations when Sherlock spoke, obviously shaken by what he'd deduced from observing him.

Softly, hesitantly, Sherlock addressed the most important thing he'd seen. "What stopped you?"

Knowing precisely what Sherlock meant, Mycroft answered him directly. "The good doctor."

Sherlock nodded once. Visibly bracing himself, he asked Mycroft to continue.

"Shortly after I gave him your letter, he came to me for help with the HNM Care. As we worked together, he began to trust me, and we started to become friends."

"John is quite extraordinary, Sherlock." Mycroft sighed. "Despite what he was going through personally, he still found it in him to try to help others. He would constantly put aside his own pain or grief to help someone else with theirs."

"You experienced that first hand," Sherlock stated, ruthlessly squashing the tiny seed of jealousy that tried to sprout.

Mycroft nodded. "The second anniversary of your death found us both at your grave. He had been there first. He…"

Mycroft swallowed hard, the memory making it difficult to continue. Sherlock's hand tightened on his shoulder and he took a half step closer. Mycroft closed his eyes briefly before continuing.

"John truly has remarkable powers of observation, different than ours, but just as strong and effective. He immediately knew what was wrong with me and addressed it. He helped me understand the sentiment I had been experiencing. That day I realized in full what it meant for me to have… lost my brother."

"I – I'm" Mycroft closed his mouth tightly. Turning away slightly, he took a breath and tried again. "I'm sorry. I didn't…"

"Myc," Sherlock interrupted him, reaching out with his other hand and turning Mycroft back to face him fully. "I'm the one who should be apologizing. I knew what I had to do, that I had to die to complete Moriarty's story, and I knew it would affect others, but I didn't realize how much."

Mycroft blinked at the rare admission. Shaken, he raised both hands to grip Sherlock's upper arms, the closest he could bring himself to an embrace, and breathed, "I am so… pleased… you are here, 'Lock."

Sherlock gave a faint smile and let his eyes say what he didn't have words for. After a moment he gently squeezed his brother's shoulders one more time, before they both turned back to gaze into the fire.

oOOooOOooOOo

John finished changing and when he heard their conversation die down, he walked back down the stairs. Peering into the sitting room as he passed to get glasses and the scotch, he could see the brothers in front of the fire place, standing close enough for their shoulders to brush against each other.

Smiling to himself, John gathered everything onto a tray and brought it in, setting it on the table next to his arm chair. Limping back into the kitchen, he retrieved an icepack from the freezer. Grabbing a cushion off the sofa, he tossed it on the seat of one of the desk chairs. Sitting on the other desk chair placed between the two arm chairs, he gently lifted his right leg up to rest on the cushion, expertly securing the wrapped ice pack in place over the top of the pajama bottoms he'd donned.

Leaning back with a sigh, John gratefully accepted the glass of scotch Mycroft handed to him. Sipping it slowly, he savored the flavor and the warmth. He smiled as Mycroft drained his first glass rather quickly, before refilling it and sipping at the second.

"I am sorry I couldn't prepare you any better, Mycroft," John said apologetically. "I didn't trust that one of our phones weren't being listened in on. Until we take care of a couple of problems, it isn't safe for Sherlock to be known to be alive. Not safe for us."

John watched a million calculations run through Mycroft's eyes as he took apart what John said and left unsaid.

He nodded at John, before looking at Sherlock with a flash of awe and pride in his eyes as the pieces fell into place.

"That's why," Mycroft said, simply.

"Yes. I needed to keep you safe, therefore uninvolved," Sherlock acknowledged.

"Moriarty used us against you to force you to jump."

"Yes. More specifically he named John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Snipers who would shoot if they didn't see me jump." Seeing Mycroft's nearly invisible wince and the flash of hurt quickly smothered, Sherlock was quick to continue. "However, I didn't put it past him to also have a gun on you. He may have thought your 'breach of trust' was enough of a break in our already strained relationship that it wouldn't bother me enough to jump. But I couldn't be sure, not enough to risk contacting you, or anyone else directly."

"As I told John before, after I was able to go undercover, I took out the snipers I could find. I couldn't get the one on Greg because he was in the Yard at the time, and I was concerned I would be exposed. I also couldn't get close enough to you or your people to determine if one of them was a sniper assigned to you. I had to leave London and start working on breaking apart Moriarty's organization and tracking the people who would have known his standing orders."

"Were you on your own?" asked Mycroft.

"Ms. Adler," Sherlock simply stated.

Mycroft's eyes lit with understanding.

"Wait, Sherlock, I have a question," John interrupted before Mycroft could comment. "You just said something about Mycroft's 'breach of trust.' What am I missing?"

Sherlock nodded to Mycroft. "It was a deal we arranged. It was how we got back into Baskerville the second time. He gave me access. In exchange he was able to use bits of my life story to feed to Moriarty."

Responding to the outrage blooming on John's face, Mycroft said, "We had no idea how far he'd actually take the information or what he would do with it. Even we weren't able to anticipate that. However, part of the reason it was so easy to break the myth of Richard Brooke was that the 'life story' of Sherlock wasn't one hundred percent true. I twisted facts, slightly altered details. It was enough to be believable but, when subjected to close scrutiny, would fall apart."

Glancing at Sherlock, he smiled. "We were reasonably certain that Moriarty wouldn't verify all the information. By that point he was too obsessed."

"But when I came to you that night to confront you in your office…" John's voice trailed off, finding it difficult to think about the way events so rapidly unraveled.

"I meant that apology. I never thought… things would go the way they did. It got out of control too quickly for me to manage… And when Sherlock… jumped… when I got the news… I was desperate to find out why things went wrong so badly." Mycroft ran a hand distractedly through his hair.

Turning his still haunted eyes back to Sherlock, Mycroft continued. "I had failed to protect you, even after all our planning to try to contain the threat of Moriarty. Then Moriarty was dead. But so were you, and I had to try to pick up the pieces."

Mycroft thought for a moment. "You may be right, Sherlock. There may be someone relatively close to me who was either planted or won over by Moriarty, a mole and a sniper all in one. I never even looked for one. I was too caught up in other things." He sighed at his lapse. "I know where my focus will be for the next few days."

oOOooOOooOOo

Except for the fire crackling, the room stilled as each of the men contemplated the new information they had gathered.

John struggled to reconcile what he'd just heard with what he thought had been true. His mind spun with the new information. He was comforted by knowing Mycroft hadn't intentionally betrayed his brother. It hadn't been the smartest plan to give Moriarty anything, but at the same time at least it had been planned between the two of them and not a betrayal.

Now I feel guilty for how I attacked him in his office... oh and the things I said to him when he tried to approach me at the flat. He really was trying to help me, to show me how much he was hurting too. I just didn't see it.

Mycroft thought back over the last few years in light of the new knowledge that Sherlock had actually been alive. Now the tip offs and information that had come in, and that increased as he had people move on them, made sense. He found himself quite amazed that his little brother, who used to be so self-centered, egotistical, and isolated had changed enough to be willing to sacrifice everything to save those he had learned to care for.

My little brother, who I used to be so worried about, so concerned that he would never have a normal life... he's had an extraordinary life, and has yet so much more to live. I'm so... proud... of him. I hope that someday he will see that. I hope we can truly be brothers now, not arch enemies we used to be. I hope... Hope? (Interesting. Another sentiment to examine later.) I suppose tonight has been a good start on the road to returning to what we had when we were young and lost so quickly.

Sherlock watched his brother, aware that Mycroft's emotions were far closer to the surface than they'd ever been. For all he'd spouted about the problems with caring for others, he hadn't been truly divorced from any feelings for Sherlock. Cataloguing every word, reaction and expression Mycroft had made so far, Sherlock planned to pull them out later and reexamine them. This man in front of him seemed far different than the arrogant brother he'd left behind.

Of course, he did become friends with John. My friendship with John has drastically changed me as well. I suppose Mycroft could be changed by his friendship too. John is able to help us give names to the emotions we normally suppress, and show us the proper outlets for them.

oOOooOOooOOo

Mycroft broke the silence that pervaded the flat with another question. "Why reveal yourself now? Why last night?"

Sherlock's lips curved in a rueful smile. "Completely unintended. All John knew was I was one of the Homeless Network, who had helped him, got injured in the process, and was quite ill."

John chuckled as the atmosphere of the flat lightened. "I must thank you, Mycroft. Your agents were almost good enough to convince me."

Mycroft rolled his eyes as Sherlock raised his eyebrow at John.

"You were a bit out of it, Sherlock, but there was a couple who conveniently pulled me out of the street almost as soon as I hit the ground. They pulled you out too, and when it was apparent I wasn't going to leave you on the street, they helped me get you home."

"Don't worry," John said, waving a hand toward Mycroft, "I don't think anyone else noticed or would have noticed. I've been trained to catch things like that."

John crushed Mycroft's superior look with one well placed question. "Why do you think I allowed your agents to trail me for the past three years?"

"You knew?" Mycroft couldn't hide his surprise.

"Of course I did," John laughed easily. "I figured that if I threatened them or tried to get you to back off, you'd just be more devious about it. I decided I liked being able to recognize the regulars, and know who I could trust if I had to. Mostly, I just ignored them, once I identified them, so I would be ready to deal with any real threats."

Sherlock laughed out loud. "It seems we've both made the mistake of underestimating John again, Myc."

Mycroft huffed out a laugh and raised his glass in a salute to John before taking a drink.

"If you must know, the Homeless Network is amazingly protective of you, and impossible to bribe when it has anything to do with you." Mycroft shook his head. "There were many times they blocked my agents from getting to you, so effectively guarding you that the agents just backed off."

John felt a mixture of embarrassment and pride, realizing just how well he had been cared for over the past three years. Wincing, he shifted in his chair, rearranging his leg slightly and taking the ice pack off for a bit. Then, knowing it was time, he refocused himself.

The two brothers stared in fascination at John as his face was transformed by a fury all the more frightening for the control he had over it.

Looking at his two friends on either side of the fireplace, he knew they were seeing a side of himself he rarely showed anymore. John allowed them to fully see the cold, calculating soldier he always kept hidden within himself.

His eyes hardened with determination as he said, "We have some things to discuss and put into place so we can end what Moriarty started, once and for all."

a/n: I hope you enjoyed.

Here's a little teaser from the next chapter... another reunion...

" Well, well, well. If it isn't little Captain Watson," mocked the military man sitting at the table. "Sebastian Moran." John's voice was cold and low, with no hint of emotion coloring it.

Please read and review! :)

 

Chapter Text

a/n: And here we go! Are you ready? Enjoy! :)

"What rank was John in the army again?" asked Sally Donovan, as she watched him in the interrogation room through the one way mirror.

"Captain," answered Greg. On rare occasions he had watched his friend pull rank, and he was commanding then. But those times had nothing on what he was seeing now.

John, every inch an officer, held himself with dignity and authority. Every movement was precise and calculated. It wasn't until you looked at his face that you saw the difference.

His eyes were ice cold.

Donovan shuddered slightly. This wasn't the quiet doctor in wool jumpers that she thought she knew. This man was a soldier, an officer, and extremely deadly.

"Did you know John was in the special ops?" Greg asked conversationally, as if he knew what Sally was thinking.

"What?" exclaimed Anderson, as he stepped through the door to watch the interrogation.

"Yeah. He was a sniper, and a damn good one if the reports I read are right," replied Greg. Turning to look at him, he asked Anderson, "Everything in place upstairs?"

Anderson nodded, "They said they'd keep us posted. We're almost certain who it is, we're just waiting for him to make his move."

Greg nodded and they all turned their attention to the two way mirror as the conversation started in the room.

oOOooOOooOOo

"Well, well, well. If it isn't little Captain Watson," mocked the military man sitting at the table.

"Sebastian Moran." John's voice was cold and low, with no hint of emotion coloring it.

John walked smoothly over to the table behind which Moran was seated. Putting his folder down, he stayed standing and surveyed the man in front of him.

He still had the same superiority complex John remembered from Afghanistan. Though he had aged, nothing else had changed. His body was still well toned, and his dark brown eyes were empty except for the murderous rage that lurked in their depths.

John slowly pulled out a chair and sat down across the table from him.

"So, why am I enjoying the company of the little Captain today?" sneered Moran. "Where are the police officers? Too afraid to come and play?"

"Stuff it, Moran," John said with boredom evident in his voice. His cold eyes never flickered off of Moran's face.

Not even looking down at the folder on the table, John asked, "What was your ring doing in Colonel Adair's office?"

"Oh, you mean this one?" Moran held up his right hand, a red signet ring gleaming on his ring finger. "You must be mistaken."

Slapping a photo down on the table in front of Moran, John's tone dropped slightly, biting off the words. "I don't think so."

Moran barely glanced at the photo.

Not breaking eye contact with him, John said, "I would know that ring anywhere."

Smirking, Moran said, "Yes, you became rather well acquainted with this ring, didn't you, Johnny?"

John didn't answer the obvious goading.

John flipped a page in his folder. "It was the air gun of course. You have been confusing the police for a while with that soft nosed revolver bullet. I didn't immediately put two and two together. Not until you made the mistake of leaving your ring behind after talking to Adair."

"Ah, yes. The little Captain is trying to follow in the shadow of the fraud detective. Too bad, what happened to him," Moran mocked.

In the observation room, Donovan gasped as John started to chuckle. It wasn't the warm one she was used to hearing; this was an echo, humorless, and froze her blood.

"Your baiting won't do anything, Moran. I know who you are and I know what you are."

John stood, turned his back on Moran, and walked over to the mirror on the wall.

Everyone in the observation room held their breath. John's face gave nothing away.

He turned back, leaning casually against the wall next to the mirror, his hands tucked into his trouser pockets. He stayed silent, waiting for Moran to speak first.

"The blogger, defending his detective to the end. The tears, helping the homeless, all in the name of his friend," mocked Moran in a sing-song voice. He paused dramatically before snapping, "You're pathetic! You think you're so special. You manage to cock up some evidence to get me discharged from the army, and then you come home and make a name for yourself as the sidekick of a freak and a fraud who jumped off a building at the first sign he was going to be exposed!"

Donovan glanced over at Greg, and saw his hands clench into fists and his eyes narrow. He looked like he was ready to jump through the window. She felt the same impulse running through her veins.

John's back stiffened. He strode around the table. Placing his hands on the edge, close to Moran, he leaned over, crowding into his personal space.

"As I said, Moran. I know who you are and I know what you are. A sniper. A mercenary for hire. How much did Moriarty pay you?"

Moran couldn't hide his surprise.

"Oh yes, I know you were working for him. You were the sniper at the Pool. You were in on kidnapping me and strapping me into that Semtex vest. Though I do have to say, you did manage to keep your hands and face well covered during the little torture session before we went out to the pool. I assume that later you were the one who took out the assassins if they had contact with Sherlock, as well."

Moran's mask fell into place again. "You can't prove any of that. You don't know anything. You were a pet, a pawn in the Game," he sneered.

John seemed to grow taller. His rage filled the room, all the more powerful for how well controlled it was.

"You took advantage of men and women in Afghanistan, natives as well as our own people. Murray and I had evidence. Still do, as a matter of fact. You got out only because someone helped you. Hmm. Wonder who that was. You came to London and worked for Moriarty. Were you paying off a debt for getting you out with only a discharge?"

John's eyes narrowed. "You worked with him, helping him with different projects he needed taken care of. Things that needed a sniper's skill. After his showdown with Sherlock on the roof, after Moriarty killed himself, you made sure that Sherlock was dead, maybe watched me and some of his other friends for a while, then left the country when you heard Moriarty's network was taking a hit elsewhere."

Moran watched John, his face giving nothing away.

"You tried, but you are no Moriarty. You couldn't keep it all together. You're not intelligent enough to balance everything. You're still a soldier at heart. The nuances escape you. Everything fell apart abroad, so you were forced back to London," John smirked.

"You have nothing on me," snarled Moran, his anger starting to show.

"Oh, but I do. You're trying to raise funds. Gambling is the easiest. However, when your partner started getting wise to your cheating, you killed them and moved onto a new partner." John smiled.

"I may not be able to prove you worked with Moriarty, but I know you killed Adair and others. Adair figured out somehow that you had killed your previous gambling partners. He confronted you with the other murders, so you got rid of him."

"You can't prove any of that," Moran said, struggling to remain impassive.

"I don't need to. The facts of the multiple cases you're linked to will prove themselves," John stated. Grabbing up his file folder, he turned and started for the door.

Moran rose from his chair, stalking towards the doctor. "I will take you apart." he hissed. "You will regret the day you ever crossed me back in Afghanistan, and even more so now."

John spun around, facing down the taller man. "You're mistaken, Moran." Fury evident in John's face and posture, he took two steps toward him.

Moran stopped cold, watching John like he would a venomous snake, unsure of when he was going to strike.

"The truth is," John growled, "I will take you apart. I will use the Adair case, and the others. You will be off the street. You will be rotting in some jail cell for Adair's murder."

John stepped closer, staring up into Moran's eyes. His fury was so intense, Donovan could almost taste it on the other side of the mirror.

"But you and I will know the real reason you are sitting there. And you're wrong," he spoke louder, continuing when Moran tried to speak. "It's nothing about me, or what happened, here or in Afghanistan. It is solely about this: you pointed a gun at my best friend. No one. And I mean no one does that to my friends and gets away with it." John's voice dropped, his words clipped and precise, full of deadly intent. "You helped Moriarty kill Sherlock Holmes. You're lucky all you're facing is a jail cell. A jail cell is too good for you."

With that, John did an about face and walked out, leaving a stunned Moran staring at the door as it slammed shut.

oOOooOOooOOo

Greg, anticipating John's departure from the interrogation room, met him outside the door. He barely recognized his friend. John turned out of the door, slamming it behind him, his face twisted in anger. John didn't acknowledge him until Greg placed his hand on John's shoulder, stopping his forward momentum.

He watched closely as John blinked, and the tension slowly leaked out of him. When his eyes refocused on Greg, he staggered slightly.

Greg steadied him and said, "Easy John. Are you all right?"

Running a hand over his face, John shook his head then leaned back against the wall, blowing out a breath.

"Yeah. Sorry, Greg. Yeah, I'm okay." John looked at Greg for a moment, not completely with him yet.

"How'd I do?" John asked, curious.

Greg started to laugh. "You honestly have no idea?! I swear, I never want you to interrogate me, for any reason, at any time! You scared the piss out of him." Greg lowered his voice and said as an aside, "I think you did the same to Donovan and Anderson, who were in the room with me."

John laughed a bit as the rest of anger that fueled him drained away. "Well I hope that did its job. Sherlock thinks I can't act, but if this worked, maybe he will change his mind."

Greg looked at him incredulous. "That was acting?"

"Well, maybe not entirely." John grinned at him, unrepentant. Having collected himself, he murmured, "Did they get your sniper?"

Greg nodded, "Yeah. I just got the message before I came out to meet you. He got the message that Sherlock was seen, and knew I was down here for an interrogation. He made a beeline for me, and made the mistake of being very obvious about it. They actually grabbed him just down the hall, as he was drawing his gun."

John sighed in relief. "Good. Did he have time to contact anyone? To pass off the hit?"

"No. We triple-checked his phone, and had it away from him before he could even attempt to send a message. Mycroft is making sure he doesn't have any fail safes that will be triggered if he doesn't send an email or text message or something." Greg put a hand on John's shoulder.

"Go on. Get on to your next part," Greg smiled.

John gave a low chuckle and nodded. Pulling himself away from the wall he walked down the hall and around the corner.

Taking a big breath, Greg turned and walked into the interrogation room, armed with questions for Moran.

oOOooOOooOOo

Twenty minutes after Moran was allowed to leave the Yard, Greg, Donovan, and the rest of the team headed out on a call to the other side of town. One of Moran's men confirmed their departure, comparing a picture he had against the figures that entered the car before it sped off. Convinced, he called it in to Moran, then walked away from his post outside the Yard.

No one noticed a man and woman, part of the cleaning crew, leave a back door of the building and slip off down the street and into a back alley.

oOOooOOooOOo

Without question, Sally put on the dirty coat she was handed and pulled the knit hat over her hair. She looked at Greg wryly as he did the same. He grinned at her, and whispered, "Just wait, it gets better!" before they were led off around the corner into another alley.

After multiple turns, their guide jumped up and grabbed onto the end of a fire escape, deftly pulling it down and climbing like a monkey. Sally followed Greg, thankful she'd heeded his advice and worn comfortable clothes to work that day.

After reaching the roof of that building, they jumped across several short gaps between buildings, then ran down a flight of interior stairs, back out onto a fire escape and down to the ground again. They mingled with crowds on busy streets and slipped back into the shadows of alleys and narrow walkways between buildings. Reaching a small courtyard, they were motioned into hiding at the edge, still in the shadows.

Their guide stepped out ahead of them, meeting someone else dressed in tatty clothes. After a short conversation, their guide came back to them.

"Ya can trust him. He'll get ya safely to Wiggins." With that, he turned and left, melting so quickly into the shadows of the alley behind them, Sally lost him in seconds.

Turning, she followed Greg as their new guide gestured them onwards.

After another twenty minutes of running and walking, more fire escapes, alleys and even a few basements, Greg and Sally were motioned to rest in a dark corner of one of those basements.

Sally turned to Greg. "Do you have any idea where we are going?"

"Actually, I know our destination, but have never gone this way before," Greg smiled at her.

Sally heaved a sigh as two new people came over to them.

"Hey there, I'm Wiggins. This here's Jimmy," he said, indicating the red headed boy next to him. "We'll get you to the Doc.

"Thanks, Wiggins. I appreciate your help. You too, Jimmy. I know the Doc has been taking good care of you. Thanks for watching his back too," said Greg, with an easy smile.

As they moved out, Sally asked, "Do you know them?"

"I've seen them before. I know where their loyalties lie, and I trust them," Greg replied.

Sally shook her head and followed Greg as they entered another basement.

Back on the streets and multiple turns later, Wiggins nodded at Jimmy and turned off.

"I'm gonna make sure that we've cleared any tails. We shoulda by now. Keep with Jimmy. If anything isn't clear, I'll let you know," he said to Greg. Nodding at Sally, he disappeared the way they'd come.

Jimmy said, "We're gonna hide down in that basement there for fifteen minutes. If we haven't heard anything by then, you're free to head on up and over."

Slipping across the alley and to an open basement window, Greg grinned at Sally and dropped down through. She sighed, hoping this wasn't some wild goose chase. She didn't know how she'd let Greg convince her to go with him on a special mission. All she knew was if it helped to bring down Moran, she was in.

After sitting in the corner of a dank, dark basement for the allotted fifteen minutes, Jimmy shifted and said, "Follow me."

Carefully guiding them through the basement to a stairwell, Jimmy paused.

"This is it. Right across the alley up there is where you need to be. Let me go first. Follow when the door is opened."

Greg nodded and crept to the top of the stairs, watching as Jimmy walked across small alley and tapped at the door. As he opened it, Greg reached back for Sally's hand. Holding tight, they stayed hunched over and nearly ran through the door.

Sally leaned back against the wall, inside the door as Greg stepped into the room, taking off his hat and shucking the old coat.

He laughed out loud and asked, "Jimmy, how long have we been running around out there?"

"Nearly an hour, sir," Jimmy replied, proudly.

Greg ruffled Jimmy's hair. "What is it with that 'sir' thing?"

Jimmy flushed, his face almost matching his hair color.

At that moment, a familiar figure bustled from the other room into the kitchen of the flat they found themselves in.

"All right you two, give me your coats and hats. I'll hang onto them. Jimmy, you come with me and let's get you some food." Mrs. Hudson said, as she took Sally's borrowed clothes.

Sally looked with confusion between Mrs. Hudson and Greg.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand on her arm as she spoke with Greg.

"I am on my way out, after I give a sandwich to Jimmy. Is there anything else you need?"

"No, ma'am," Greg replied. "Just take good care of my wife."

"You doubt that, Detective Inspector?" Mrs. Hudson teased.

Greg gave her a quick hug. "Not one bit. Just don't get into trouble."

Mrs. Hudson smiled gently up at Sally, seeing her confusion. Giving her arm a quick squeeze, she said, "You'll understand soon enough. They're waiting for you upstairs."

oOOooOOooOOo

Greg led the way out of Mrs. Hudson's flat, through the entryway, and up the stairs to 221B.

As they reached the upstairs landing, Sally realized the door to the sitting room was open. Her eyes widened as she took in the scene.

John stood at one of the windows, opening the thick, dark curtains. Once they were open, he leaned against the glass and looked down into the street.

"Do you see them?" he questioned the figure across the room

Sally slowly turned her eyes to the other window as the curtains were flung apart. She reached out a hand and grabbed onto the door frame when she heard a familiar retort.

"Idiots. If they wanted to put surveillance on a place, the least they could have done was to be more subtle." The baritone voice rang with impatience.

"Really, Sherlock? If they were being more subtle, it would be harder to know for sure that we were seen and that the message got to Moran," John replied with exasperation.

Greg stifled a snort at the exchange, and stepped into the room, taking care to keep well away from the windows. Sally stayed frozen in the doorway.

oOOooOOooOOo

John and Sherlock knew Greg was there, but at his snort, John turned around. Catching Greg's eyes, he smiled at him before he stepped closer to Sally, whose normally dark complexion was steadily losing color.

Seeing that Sally couldn't take her eyes away from Sherlock's figure across the room, John briefly turned to Greg, asking him to get a glass of ice water for her. Taking her arm, he guided her to the end of the sofa, farthest from the window.

"John…" Sherlock said with a warning in his tone.

"I know, Sherlock. We are well away from the windows, and since it's been about an hour and a half now since Moran was released and got all the information about you, he will be waiting for nightfall." John shook his head. "Mother hen."

"I heard that, John."

"I meant you to," murmured John, turning his attention back to Sally.

"How, how is he here? I mean, you proved today what a good actor you are, but how… not for these three years. There's no way…" Sally's voice trailed off as Greg handed her the glass of water, then gestured for Sherlock to follow him into the kitchen.

oOOooOOooOOo

Greg and Sherlock heard John and Sally's voices as John started explaining things to her.

"What is it, Greg?"

When Greg looked at him, Sherlock quirked an eyebrow and waited.

Greg sighed before digging in his coat pocket for a DVD. Handing it over to Sherlock, he said, "You need to watch this."

Sherlock nodded and pocketed the disk.

"No. Sherlock. You need to watch it now. Before tonight." Greg looked at him seriously.

Sherlock moved John's laptop to the end of the kitchen table and sat down as he inserted the DVD into the disk drive. "What is it, Inspector?"

"A recording of John's part of the interrogation with Moran."

Sherlock looked up sharply, knowing the flat tone in Greg's voice was hiding something. Then his attention refocused on the scene that played out in front of him on the screen.

oOOooOOooOOo

As the recording of the interrogation progressed, Sherlock's posture stiffened. His eyes flicked back and forth, taking in every detail and nuance of each of the men shown.

He had seen John angry before. He had seen him reacting to things with his soldier instincts. However, this was new. He found himself holding his breath during their final exchange. Though the recording ended, Sherlock continued to stare at the screen, absorbing all he'd seen.

He could see now John wasn't exaggerating when he said he knew Moran. They'd had more than a passing acquaintance in Afghanistan, something had happened there that was more than a bit not good. But then Moran tortured John before the Pool? How had he not seen that? How had John hidden that so well? What had happened to John before the Pool? What hadn't he ever thought to ask? Whatever it was, John had obviously been guarding his words, even through his anger. He could ask John about what happened. But how? And would John be willing to talk about it?

The thoughts swirled through his head. He needed to catalogue this, but he didn't have time now. Sherlock couldn't shut it all away somewhere in his Mind Palace unorganized either. He needed to be able to pull on Moran's reactions to John when they dealt with him tonight.

oOOooOOooOOo

Greg sat nearby, listening to the video, but preferring to watch Sherlock's reaction to it. A small smile played over his lips, because Sherlock was still unaware that John and Sally had come in and watched the last few minutes over his shoulder.

John cleared his throat, causing Sherlock to jump slightly. "Maybe you won't doubt my acting abilities so much."

Sherlock spun in his chair, unguarded amazement in his eyes. "That was acting?!"

Greg laughed out loud as Sherlock used the same phrasing he had earlier. John grinned as well.

"Well, as I told Greg, maybe only some of it. I just had to focus on controlling myself, or I might have taken him out right there. For a minute it was close," John reflected, trying to ignore Sherlock's piercing gaze.

"How did you know he was involved with all those things?" questioned Sherlock.

"I didn't know for sure, but considering that he worked for Moriarty, it was a good guess. He only confirmed it by his reaction. Or lack thereof." John could see plenty of questions in Sherlock's eyes, but he shook his head slightly. Those would have to wait.

Sherlock nodded and stayed silent. John had surprised him quite a bit since he'd revealed himself. He was impressed with his ability to observe as well as the accuracy of his inborn intuition. It was different than Sherlock's intelligence and powers of deduction, but still very effective.

There was a lot about John's history that Sherlock didn't know, and even things that had happened to him since they'd met, the Pool being one of them. Those things had shaped John into who he was, and helped him develop the skills he had. Sherlock hoped after all this was cleaned up that he would be able to learn more about John's past to better understand his friend. If John gave him the chance that is.

oOOooOOooOOo

Just after dark, John quietly came down the stairs from his room, carrying black army boots with rubber soles. Wearing light weight, loose fitting black pants, and a black t shirt, Sally noted that John's entire appearance had changed again.

The t shirt revealed his compact upper body and well muscled arms. Though he was still thinner than he should be, it was obvious he was very fit. As he sat down and leaned over to pull on and lace up his boots, his face appeared years younger.

Sally's eyebrows raised as Sherlock walked out of his room, back to the kitchen. He too had changed his clothes, wearing black cargo pants and a black button up shirt. Not only was she still struggling with the concept that Sherlock was alive, she couldn't remember ever seeing him without his customary suit on.

"John." When he had John's attention, he tossed him something. "From Mycroft."

John held out the item in front of him. It was an ultra thin, lightweight bulletproof vest. Pulling it on, he adjusted the Velcro, making sure it fit snuggly. He looked pointedly at Sherlock.

"I already have mine on, John," Sherlock huffed, unbuttoning the top buttons of his shirt to prove it. "Before you ask, Mycroft and his men are in place and ready to move when we need them."

John's lips quirked in a faint smile, but his eyes stayed focused and grim as he pulled a dark wool jumper over his head before pulling on his coat. Tucking his gun into one coat pocket, he stuck an extra clip of bullets into the other.

Bill Murray reached out and shook John's hand.

"You be careful, Captain. We won't be able to talk to you, but we will be able to hear everything you say, once you open the channel," he reminded John. He indicated the nearly invisible wire on the inside of John's coat.

John nodded and patted his inside pocket. "Thanks, Bill. I'll make sure it's on when it's needed." John leaned closer to Bill and spoke so only he could hear. "You remember the plan and the code?"

"Yeah, John. But that doesn't mean I have to like it," replied Bill in an equally low voice. His eyes were troubled as he looked at John.

"I know, it's just a precaution. With any luck we will get the drop on him and get him in cuffs before it's even needed," John tried to reassure him.

"I've spread the word and we're all in place and ready, Captain," Bill said loudly enough for the others to hear. His face was grim, but his eyes held a deep concern for his friend in them.

"Sally, make sure you stay low when you move that thing around." Lestrade indicated the mannequin that looked so much like Sherlock.

Sally nodded and shook his hand, finding her voice for the first time in hours, "See you soon, sir."

John looked around the kitchen, felt through his pockets and nodded, satisfied he had all he needed. Exchanging a snappy salute with Bill before he headed back upstairs to his lookout, John led Sherlock and Greg silently down the stairs and though Mrs. Hudson's dark flat.

Checking to make sure the other two were ready, he slowly opened the back door and slipped silently into the rain. Greg and Sherlock exchanged a glance, noting their friend's ability to melt into the shadows. Greg shook his head in amazement, shut the door behind them, and followed John and Sherlock on a twisted route through alleys, back yards and side streets.

a/n: I know - I kind of left this hanging, though not as bad as some chapters. Second confrontation with Moran coming in this next chapter... and some interesting facts revealed. Until then! :)

 

Chapter Text

Having successfully made their way to the back of the building directly across from 221B, the three men slipped inside.

John and Sherlock were now huddled in a small side room on the third floor, level with John's bedroom window. Looking down, they could clearly see Sherlock's silhouette on the curtain, as it moved from time to time, in apparent conversation with someone else in the room.  Lestrade was waiting down one floor, in case Moran stopped there rather than coming all the way up.

John hunkered down to wait in a more comfortable position in a corner with a clear view of both the window and the larger room beyond them. He wiped water off his forehead that dripped from his wet hair. With a soft sigh, Sherlock sank down beside him, his back against the wall, pushing his own wet hair out of his eyes.

John forced his muscles to relax, taking deep, silent breaths and holding them briefly before letting them out. Ignoring how wet he was, and the cold creeping through him, he focused in on the sounds around him so he would be able to block them out to notice anything unusual.

He thought back to the week he'd had since his initial planning session with Mycroft and Sherlock. John had gone about his daily routine. He was finally back to his regular work schedule at the clinic after his bout with pneumonia. That helped keep him occupied. He kept to his normal routine of walks or runs in the evenings, spending time with Phoebe and checking in on the rest of his Network. He had seen Sherlock twice as Ollie, but otherwise had no contact with him.

However, at one point during the week, John woke terrified from a nightmare. Needing to run off the fear and adrenalin, he found himself walking across the grass to the familiar gleaming black headstone. Sinking down to sit with his back against it, he wrapped his arms around his knees, resting his head on them. He spent the whole night sorting through his fear triggered by the dreams, as well as the grief and anger, only raising his head up as the sky started to turn gray with the impending dawn.

He knew Mycroft and Sherlock had sent messages back and forth using the Homeless Network and throw away phones. John left it up to them to coordinate this day of antagonizing Moran and finally goading him to action. He'd even made one of his visits to Mycroft at the Diogenese Club, where they had lunch. When Mycroft was assured they weren't being monitored, they discussed the details of the day.

John coordinated with members of the Homeless Network to get Lestrade and Donovan to 221B safely and without notice. He left the timing down to the two Holmes brothers, knowing they could iron everything out perfectly. He just had needed to show up where he was told, when he was told, and play his part.

He had to admit, knowing what was going to happen only partially prepared him for leaving the Yard and getting out of the cab at Baker Street. After paying the cabbie, John had taken a deep breath and straightened glancing to his right down the street. Shifting his focus to the left, he saw him.

oOOooOOooOOo

Striding confidently toward him, his ridiculous black coat swirling around him as he moved, was Sherlock Holmes. The curls of his hair, dyed back to his normal color, and trimmed back to its accustomed length and style, lifted and blew slightly in the breeze. Seeing him this way, in his suit, the Belstaff, and his scarf, no longer looking like a cross between Ollie and his best friend, caused John's breath to leave him with a rush of air.

Trying to keep his composure, John reached out his hand to Sherlock as he approached, grateful for the firm grip on his hand, steadying him on his feet. He knew he didn't need to playact his joy and surprise. Sherlock kept a friendly hand on his shoulder as they approached the door, and Mrs. Hudson threw it open with a glad cry.

As Sherlock allowed himself to be enveloped in her arms, John saw black spots invading his field of vision and realized he desperately needed to remember to breathe. Trying not to hyperventilate, he vaguely registered murmuring something to Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock's hand guiding him through the door.

Once the door was safely shut behind them, John sank down on one of the lower stairs, gasping and lowering his head to rest between his knees. When his breathing was more under control, and he no longer felt as if he was going to pass out, John raised his head slowly to see Sherlock's face close by, his brows drawn together in concern.

"John, what happened? Are you all right?" Worry tinged his friend's voice.

Shaking his head, and gesturing with his hand at Sherlock, John smiled weakly, "You. Just looking up the street and seeing you coming as if nothing had ever happened, looking the same… It just took me by surprise. Hit me all over again that you're actually here."

Meeting Sherlock's eyes honestly and openly, he saw when it clicked.

"Oh, of course. Even though I have been back for just over a week, I have always looked a little like Ollie to you, so it was still a shock, even though you knew what to expect."

John nodded, grateful he didn't have to try to put any more of it into words. Sherlock held out his hand and helped him to his feet. Ascending the stairs, they continued the plan they had put into motion.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock's shoulder nudged John insistently, and he blinked once before turning to look at him. Raising an eyebrow at him, John silently questioned Sherlock.

Barely whispering, Sherlock leaned in close to his ear to minimize any noise they might make.

"Why haven't you gotten angry at me yet, John?"

John pulled back a little bit to see Sherlock's face more clearly in the dim light. Realizing he was completely serious, John shook his head and wiped a hand over his face.

"Sherlock, this isn't the time or the place," John started to murmur, before he was interrupted.

"Please, I need to know." A hint of insecurity shown through with the 'please' and in the tone of Sherlock's voice.

John placed a calming hand on Sherlock's arm, able to feel his tension bleeding through.

"Honestly, I have had very little time to think about being angry. You've been sick. I've been in shock. We've spent so much time planning and having to go about life as normal as possible, that I have pushed everything off to the side to deal with later."

"But…"

"Sherlock, we do need to talk about what happened, and both of our reactions to it all. We are going to need to sort some things out. But now is not the time to try. We need to wait until after all this, until after we've dealt with Moran and we can rest. I'm glad you're back, I'm glad you're not really… dead. Can we leave the rest for later?"

Sherlock sighed, but subsided with a nod. John knew he wasn't satisfied with his answer, and to be honest neither was John. However, he couldn't allow anything to disrupt his focus if they were going to corner Moran. He had no doubts that this night was going to get a lot more difficult and a lot more dangerous before it was over.

"Listen, I need you to do something with that great big brain of yours." Sherlock looked over, his interest piqued by John's phrasing.

John smiled. "I need you to take your worries and fears," Sherlock made a face and John just shook his head, "and lock them into one of those rooms in your Mind Palace, just until we have taken care of this. I need you focused on the here and now. I know you know this, but it bears repeating. Moran is dangerous. I have seen him in action far too many times to underestimate him. I trust you to have my back, and I have yours. Let's do what we do best; let's work together to get him off the street one way or another."

Sherlock nodded his agreement and said, "All the sentiment has been distracting to me, and I have found in the past you have been able to help me define and deal with them. You are correct. Now is not the time."

With that Sherlock briefly closed his eyes, making small, synchronized hand gestures before opening them a few moments later. His body visibly relaxed and his gaze sharpened as he settled in to wait once again.

John relaxed next to him as well, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly. He spared a minute to marvel that Sherlock was still turning to him for help navigating his emotions. He suppressed a smile at the warmth that spread through him at the thought. Shaking his head at himself, he focused on sifting through the different sounds again, slowly letting go of the sound of the rain, and water dripping off the roof. He settled in to wait for the sounds of the house betraying an intruder.

After nearly two hours of waiting, they were rewarded with a slight click, then a creak of a floor board two stories down.

Moving slowly, Sherlock and John both stood and soundlessly shifted until they were in the shadows. John reached into his coat pocket and flipped open the channel, breathing near the tiny microphone, "Here we go."

oOOooOOooOOo

Slow footsteps crept up the stairs and a shadow stopped in the doorway.

John held his breath, waiting for the man to make his move.

The shadow stepped into the room and into the faint light coming in the window, resolving itself to show Sebastian Moran carrying a hard sided case by one hand. He settled down to his knees in front of the window, focusing intently on the shadow of his enemy across the street.

Baring his teeth in a feral grin, Moran quickly set the case down, opened it and assembled the gun effortlessly. He gingerly raised the window and hunkered down over the barrel, tucking the butt up close to his shoulder.

The moments passed and still Moran didn't move. John knew he was making minute adjustments to his aim, allowing for the rain and wind and distance. He could feel Sherlock tense beside him, ready to uncoil at the right moment.

His eyes fixed on Moran, John saw the exact moment he settled in to take the shot. There was a faint popping sound, and then a tinkle of glass as the window broke across the street. Sherlock's shadow shuddered, faltered and fell from view. A couple of seconds later a muffled, wordless scream was heard, then nothing.

Nothing, except for a low chuckle coming from the man by the window.

"First you, Sherlock Holmes, and now that you're out of the way, your friends as well. All picked off, one by one and there's…"

His words were interrupted by six feet of enraged consulting detective latching onto his back. John sprang after him, pulling out his gun, but couldn't do anything as the two men struggled and wrestled on the floor. It was too dark to see clearly enough to take a shot and he had to wait until Sherlock got clear.

Unfortunately, that didn't happen.

oOOooOOooOOo

The two men regained their feet, still wrestling for control when Sherlock found himself slammed against the wall, Moran's hands wrapped around his throat, thumbs pressing in, cutting off his air supply. He tried to break Moran's grip in vain, pressed too hard against the wall to shift for better leverage. Sherlock lashed out with his feet, but his strength was fading fast, and he failed to connect with anything vital enough to cause Moran to let go.

Through the roaring in his ears, he vaguely heard shouting, and then, just as everything started to go black, he saw an arm he recognized as John's snaking around Moran's neck. It caused Moran's grip on him to shift just a bit, but still not enough for him to suck in even a tiny bit of air. His hands clawed uselessly at Moran's wrists one last time before they fell away and everything faded and silence reigned.

Just moments later the sound rushed back in as Sherlock found himself coughing and gasping for air. He was lying on his side on the floor against the wall. A switch clicked and a faint, bare light bulb swinging from the ceiling illuminated the scene. As his vision refocused, he saw Lestrade by the doorway, one hand falling from the switch on the wall, the other holding his gun waiting for a clear shot. Lestrade glanced at him long enough to receive a nod before he concentrated on looking for an opening in the action.

Sherlock's focus turned to the two men struggling furiously at the center of the room.

Moran took advantage of a split second lapse and lunged at John. John ducked and Moran only managed to grab a handful of John's coat. For a moment, Sherlock thought Moran was going to reel him in, but with a quick shrug and a twist, John left him with the coat, which was dropped quickly to the floor as John came in low and fast to tackle him.

Moran staggered and went down on one knee, then swiftly retaliated, delivering a hard blow to the side of John's right knee. John let out a low cry of pain, but delivered a couple of well placed punches to Moran's side, bruising, if not cracking a few ribs.

Wrestling and trading blows, the men separated long enough to look for an opening, constantly circling one another. Their movements happened too fast for either the snipers on the roof across the street or Lestrade to get a clean shot in.

oOOooOOooOOo

As soon as John heard Sherlock gasp for air, he blocked out everything else, concentrating on Moran, funneling and controlling his rage to work to his advantage. He knew that if he couldn't get him subdued before he was hurt too badly himself, he was going to have to get out of the way long enough for someone to take a shot, or at least get Moran in position. His own gun had been knocked away into a corner in his first attack on Moran, so he couldn't even do it himself.

After taking an extremely painful hit to his bad knee, John aimed at Moran's ribs, hoping to injure him enough to slow him down. He was rewarded by the feel of bone giving way beneath his well placed onslaught.

Absorbing a vicious kick to his own ribs, John knew he was going to be feeling that one in the morning, despite the vest he was still wearing. He delivered a hard punch to Moran's solar plexus, followed by a left to his jaw that only grazed him, as Moran shifted slightly to the side, grabbed his wrist and twisted his arm up behind him with one hand. He wrapped the other arm around him, pinning John's back to his chest with a long hunting knife held to his throat.

"Oh, Johnny. I've been dreaming about this day. I wanted to take you out so badly three years ago outside of St. Bart's. But this is so much better. So much more… intimate." There was a slight pause as Moran regained his breath. "It reminds me of our time together before you got to meet your master at the pool."

John huffed out a laugh. "I recall being tied to a wall. That was nothing like this. Here you're talking. Before Moriarty did it all, giving you instructions, so I never heard your voice. I wasn't sure it was you until you confirmed it today at the Yard." John paused a moment, then said thoughtfully, "It would have been nice to listen to someone else speak. Moriarty's simpering voice got quite tiring after a while. Then I had to listen to it drone on and on in my ear. It's a wonder he didn't drive you crazy with all his chatter. But, you were already insane, so I suppose it didn't hurt."

John met Sherlock's eyes and exchanged a little smirk with him, then glanced at Greg, stuck at the door, his gun still in his hand, unable to use it for the time being. He tried to figure out how to get Moran to react, so he could get out of the way enough to give Greg, or one of the snipers, a clear shot.

"Shut up!" Moran growled, tightening his hold, and pressing his knife more firmly against John's neck. "I've had the pleasure of having you in my gun sight several times, but only once was I actually able to pull the trigger."

John, hoping Sherlock could think of a solution he couldn't, shifted his weight slightly. Testing the strength of Moran's hold on him, he puzzled, "You shot at me?"

"Ah, ah, ah. Stop struggling or you're just going to make it worse," Moran sing-songed as he yanked on John's left arm trapped between them.

John hissed as his bad shoulder burned with the tension being placed on it. Trying to distract Moran, he rasped, "When did you shoot at me? Because, as I'm still here, obviously you missed."

"Do you think so? I mean there was a lot going on at the time, but it should have been pretty memorable for you. My part really was quite easy. All I had to do was hide and wait for the action to provide me a clear shot at you. I even got to pick off others, just for practice."

If at all possible, John's eyes grew harder and more dangerous looking. His mind working fast, he stared a hole in the wall just above Sherlock's head where he was still sitting, unable to make eye contact with his friend as he tried to put it together.

"What. Do. You. Mean. You got to practice?" He ground out, reigning in his fury with all the self control he could muster.

"You made it all too easy for me when you and your little medic friend decided to play hero," Moran taunted. "I see your master has it figured out now. Have you?"

Horror dawned in John's eyes as they dropped from the wall to connect with Sherlock's. As Moran's words sank in, John could see the helpless anger on his behalf in his friend's eyes.

"You. You were one of the snipers up in the rocks." John's voice was flat, emotionless.

"Oh, yes. I was discharged, and supposedly sent home, but I was helped back into the country, and given information to be in the right place at the right time." Moran gloated as he felt the shorter man start to tremble.

"It was meant to be a kill shot." John's voice was low, but clear despite the tremors running through him. "Murray took the shot at the last sniper he saw. You. It distracted you just enough to throw off your aim." John's eyes closed as Moran continued to explain. [1]

Moran sighed, "Yes. He barely winged me, just as I pulled the trigger. Of course, before I could try again, I saw you fall over that soldier you tried to help. It was entertaining watching you bleed out into the sand, and see the pain you were in. It was so entertaining, someone even snuck in and got me a bit of a recording of you, once that infection set in and you were out of your mind with the fever."

John shuddered a little, and Moran shifted his weight slightly as he continued. "Then I had the opportunity to track you as you limped through London. Purposeless. Friendless. Hopeless."

As John's eyes flew back open, his breath hitched ever so slightly, but Moran caught it. Pressing his advantage he sneered, "I saw you in that dull bedsit."

John knew what was coming, but knew there was nothing he could say to stop Moran's venomous words about the time just after he came back from Afghanistan. He started to shake his head as if to stop the painful truth of the words, but the knife started to break the skin on his neck. He froze again.

"I saw you," Moran repeated, "sitting on your bed, with your gun. How many times did you hold that gun to your head? Do you remember? Did you keep count?"

"Oh Jim told me all about your history. You were beaten by your alcoholic father since you were a little kid, only to escape to live with your alcoholic sister. Then you ran away to the army, but that fell apart too. Did that all run through your head as you put the gun to your head time and again? A pathetic little soldier boy, no family left to care, ready to blow out your brains…"

It was one thing to know in his head how many times he'd tried to rebuild his life, or how often he'd tried to convince himself to pull the trigger, but to have it all laid out like this was nearly unbearable. John swallowed hard, clenching his jaw, forcing the emotions down. He knew Moran was doing it to make him react, to get under his skin.

His eyes burning with anger, he glanced quickly between Greg and Sherlock, seeing the blood drain from their faces as the words spilling out of Moran sank home. Then he turned his focus back to what Moran was saying.

"…to see you drinking after you lost your little detective friend, in that little flat, half empty bottles scattered around. You were so close to turning into your father… or offing yourself with the gun."

Those words hit him like a sledgehammer, and John couldn't stop the bile rising up in the back of his throat. Involuntary he shut his eyes again against the sudden burning behind his eyes. The memory of those first months After resurfaced with such intensity, John let loose a gasp before he could stifle it. Those wounds were still too new and too raw.

Moran felt him flinch and laughed, low and mean. "Sitting there with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and your gun in another, I wondered how long it would be and what it would take before you tipped over the edge and…"

"Stop it!" Sherlock surged furiously to his feet. One look at John's face was enough for him to do anything to stem the flow of poison issuing from Moran's mouth. "Just stop it! You don't need him. You're just trying to get to me. Well, now you have me. So, we'll trade. Me for him."

Sherlock edged a bit closer and to Moran's left before he stopped. Moran shifted slightly, dragging John with, to face him.

"Ah, but I already have you, don't I? I don't need to trade. I just have to hold your pet. Jim was right. The best way to you is through him." Moran grinned gleefully. "Now we're going to have some fun."

His voice grew colder as he continued. "We're going to go someplace nice and private. Our own little party, with Johnny as the guest of honor. I'm going to take little Johnny boy here and cut him. I'm going to hurt him. I'm going to make him bleed. Well, more than I have already, anyway." Moran continued to ignore John, favoring Sherlock with all his attention. "He'll get taste of what it's like to really be beaten. I'm going to burn him. He's going to scream for relief. I will gladly wrench each scream from him, quite literally if I have to."

John swallowed hard, trying to quell the fear that was trying to paralyze him. He had endured physical torture before, but that didn't diffuse the terror rising at the thought of having to endure it again. Hyper aware of the sharp blade at his throat, John tried to keep from gasping for air. With military precision, John started running through the options available to him, discarding the ones that held no hope of Sherlock getting out alive. He vowed to himself to do everything in his power to keep Sherlock alive, no matter the cost to himself.

"I'll let you watch, Sherlock, as I completely tear him apart. And if you don't watch, it will get even worse, because I am nothing if not creative when it comes to torture." Moran sneered as he pressed his hips suggestively against John's back.

As sick as John had felt before, it had nothing on the horror that rose up in him at those words. The twisted man behind him was getting physically aroused just at the thought of what he was going to do. Blind panic raised its head, starting to overwhelm the urgent need to create a plan.

"When he finally shatters and breaks enough to beg for death, I'll let him bleed out slowly, painfully in front of you. Because hurting him hurts you even more."

Moran just smiled as Sherlock, anguish written across his pale face, swore fiercely at him, helpless to do anything while he still held John.

Looking calmly at the door, Moran said, "Detective Inspector, drop your gun and kick it into the hallway." Slowly, with an apologetic glance at John, he did as he was told.

"Good, now walk into the room and pull out your handcuffs, slowly. You are going to come over here and cuff Sherlock, where I can see you to make sure you don't slip him the key."

Greg cautiously walked closer, struggling to maintain his composure in the face of all he'd heard. Moran's eyes were on him, while Sherlock edged to Moran's left a little more.

While cuffing Sherlock's hands behind his back, John could see Greg seemed to be a bit more forceful than necessary, as Sherlock continued to try to bargain with Moran to release John. John stayed absolutely still as his two friends used the distraction to shift left again, forcing Moran to adjust his position accordingly, without being aware of it.

John knew they were trying to get Moran in position. Feeling the man's patience wearing thin, John's brain finally caught up with him. Like a puzzle piece slotting into place, his only real option suddenly became clear. He swallowed down the emotions Moran had dredged up and forced himself to concentrate on what he had to do. This was it. This is where he was drawing the line. He couldn't and wouldn't let them be taken prisoner.

There it is. This is how Sherlock felt. Only one plan, one course of action available and no chance to communicate it to anyone else. One last desperate attempt to keep his friends safe and hope they would understand later.

Internally bracing himself, he pulled his last reserves together for one final attempt. If this ended badly for him, at least Moran would get taken down before he could harm Sherlock.

He allowed his trembling to intensify, and sagged against Moran's grip. He bit the inside of his lip to keep his physical reaction at a minimum, as the burn in his shoulder increased with the tension as Moran tried to adjust. He closed his eyes, and relaxed his muscles, becoming suddenly limp and heavy in Moran's grasp as his legs buckled.

oOOooOOooOOo

He head Sherlock shout desperately, "John! John, answer me! John!" He struggled against the cuffs on his wrists.

"Hold still, damn it!" John heard Lestrade hiss at his friend, as Moran's attention was diverted. "Sherlock, let me unlock the cuffs!"

oOOooOOooOOo

Hoping the microphone in his jacket hadn't been damaged when it had been dropped in the corner, John suddenly yelled, "Vatican Cameos!" and twisted in Moran's loosening grip. The sting of the knife as it caught at his throat was eclipsed by the white hot bolt of pain that seared through him as his left shoulder gave way suddenly with a grinding crack. Sliding his right arm into the space his movement created between himself and Moran's knife hand, he knocked away the blade as he dropped to the floor.

A split second later, John heard Moran shout in pain and crash down next to him. He saw the blood spreading beneath the man, confirming one of the snipers had done his job and taken him down.

Sherlock and Greg both landed on top of the man who was still stubbornly struggling to get to his knife or gun despite his wound. Moran fought against them and cursed. Adrenalin still fueling him, John rolled to his right and managed to push himself up onto his knees using one hand.

He peered at Moran, seeing the shot had hit his shoulder. With a feral light in his eyes, John said. "Just be glad that wasn't me on the other end of the gun. You'd be in far worse shape. That looks the same as the injury you gave me. We're almost matching now, aren't we?"

As Mycroft's men entered the room, Moran interspersed his string of invectives with threats.

"I will come after you, Sherlock. Once way or another. No matter what you do now, Johnny boy isn't safe. Not anymore. I have people…"

"Who have all been removed from the picture, I assure you." The cool, cultured voice cut over Moran's and silenced him. Mycroft nodded to a couple of his men who took over holding Moran to the floor from Sherlock and Greg.

"Make sure you have some paramedics pack his wound so he doesn't bleed out before you can start questioning him," instructed John.

oOOooOOooOOo

As he watched Moran disappear from the room, still howling threats and trailing blood, John finally took a deep breath. He slumped a little bit as the adrenalin rush faded and the pain in his shoulder slammed into him. John bit back a gasp, and swayed, listing to his right. Before he could fall over, Sherlock was at his side. John groaned a bit, letting himself settle all the way to the floor and lean back against Sherlock's warm chest and shoulder, his head swimming.

When he felt pressure and pain originating from his neck, John blinked his eyes open in surprise, wondering when he'd closed them. Mycroft was kneeling on the floor in front of him, pressing his folded handkerchief to his neck.

Though he didn't have the energy to bat him away, he stared pointedly at Mycroft and said, "I'm fine, Mycroft, it's just a nick." Unfortunately his voice came out sounding much weaker than he'd intended.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "If that's a nick, I'm quite relieved I don't nick myself while shaving. I am certain that nick will need stitches."

"Then it's a good think I have a medic standing by across the street who is more than capable of taking care of that," John stated. "Now help me up, so we can go home."

"John," Sherlock said from behind him, "There is a little matter of your shoulder."

"It's just dislocated. Bill can take care of that as well. Then I just have to have it immobilized for a while." John tried to convince Sherlock, attempting to pull away from him.

However, Mycroft didn't move from in front of him, and Sherlock didn't let go of his grip on John's good shoulder. Effectively blocked by the two brothers, John looked over to where Greg was watching the scene unfold.

"Greg," John started.

"Oh no! Don't look at me, mate. I know better that to try to cross both Holmes brothers. Besides, John, I know that's your bad shoulder, and you know you at least need an x-ray to make sure nothing is badly damaged." Greg's concern bled through into his voice, and John sighed.

Sherlock took advantage of his weakening. "John, I saw you. You purposely dislocated your shoulder to get free from Moran and get out of the way," he said, his voice hoarse. "I heard it… crack." John could feel him give a slight shudder at the memory.

"That was just the sound of it pulling out of joint, Sherlock. I'm fine." Even as he tried to reassure Sherlock, John used his right hand to prod at his shoulder, despite the pain. He clearly knew what kind of damage could be done. Especially with the original injuries he sustained and his career, he knew he shouldn't risk it.

He honestly didn't want to go to the hospital and have to wait, and have strangers look him over. With all the revelations of the night, he just… it was just too much.

Moran had done this to him. Moran was responsible for getting him sent home. Moran had been watching him self destruct. Both times. Moran knew about his past. God, he thought he'd been done with that a long time ago… and now they all knew.

Though he tried to fight it, John could feel the shock kicking in. Trembling start to overtake him, only increasing the pain radiating outward from his shoulder.

He opened his eyes, and saw Mycroft closely watching him, deducing his reactions. Mycroft gave a minute nod, understanding in his eyes. Shame flooding him, John realized he must have been privy to Moran's revelations and threats.

Not now, not now. Don't think about it now.

John forced down the panic triggered by Moran's words and actions. He pushed it all of it into the dark with all his other painful memories. He would deal with it later. As he did, John felt Sherlock, still supporting him from behind, shift to hold the handkerchief against his neck to free Mycroft's hands, taking the opportunity to also monitor John's heart rate.

John released a shaky sigh as Greg settled down on his haunches on his left side, opposite of Sherlock. "I saw that hit you took to your ribs and knee too, John. You may not be able to feel anything beyond your shoulder right now, but some of those blows you took earlier need to be checked out."

"John," Mycroft said quietly, "I can have the whole process streamlined so there is no waiting."

"Oh for…" John rubbed his face tiredly. "Fine." John gave in, too exhausted to fight any longer. "But only as long as Sherlock gets his throat checked out as well. Moran choked him long enough for him to pass out, even momentarily. He knew what he was doing and could have caused significant damage."

Mycroft nodded his agreement and plucked his mobile from his jacket pocket. Gracefully standing, he stepped a few feet away as he made a call.

oOOooOOooOOo

"What do we need to do, to immobilize your arm, John, so you can move?" asked Sherlock quietly.

"Can we use your scarf?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, and John started with his instructions.

"Use this to make a sling to support it, but we need another piece of material to also bind my arm against my side to keep it from moving too much."

"Will this work?" asked Mycroft, offering his cream colored cashmere scarf as he finished his call.

John eyed it up and nodded, "Thank you, Mycroft. That should be just about the right length."

"Ok, you're going to need to do this in two stages, the sling first, then the wrap around the outside of my arm. I'll need to take a break in between the two." John thought for a moment, and then continued. "This is going to hurt like hell, so be prepared for some swearing. And don't stop, because it has to be done, and delaying it is only going to make it worse. Just keep going unless I say otherwise."

John grimaced, trying to ready himself for what he knew was coming. The other men steadied themselves the best they could, being unsure of what to expect. However, knowing it had to be done, they nodded and began.

Sherlock handed his scarf over to Mycroft, who knelt in front of John again and helped Greg carefully positioned it to cup John's elbow as well as his forearm. Then Sherlock eased John forward as they brought it up his back and tied it over his right shoulder, tight enough to bear the weight of his arm.

John gritted his teeth and tried to muffle a shout, as he leaned forward and jostled his shoulder. He stifled a low whine of pain, biting his lower lip hard, as they tied off the knot.

He gasped, "Ok, ok. Wait. Give me a second."

He let Sherlock support his weight again as he struggled to collect himself. The fire darting along his nerves caused his surroundings to start to go gray, before he fought it back.

Greg exchanged a tortured glance with Sherlock, as John struggled through the waves of pain. The lines around Mycroft's eyes deepened, reflecting his own internal distress, knowing they had to subject John to more discomfort before he could rest.

Finally taking a deep breath, John nodded his readiness. As quickly as possible, the men took Mycroft's scarf and wrapped it around the outside of John's left arm, threaded it under the makeshift sling at the front, and bringing the other end around John's back, they tied it as tight as he could stand under his right arm.

John swore and panted for breath as Sherlock pulled him back to lean against him again.

"Damn! That… that hurt… a lot more… than I expected. Hang on. Bloody hell! Just… just need… a break before… before we move."

He clutched his forearm protectively with his right hand, giving a low moan. He trembled, fighting down the nausea clawing at the back of his throat. Tears of pain traced paths down his cheeks as he closed his eyes again.

Fighting to slow his frantic, shallow breathing, John missed the looks of concern the other three men exchanged. They knew the first priority was John's physical condition and getting him pain relief.

Beyond that they were worried about the emotional cost of the night's revelations on their friend, which he was very obviously suppressing.

[1] This refers to my story "Afghanistan Comes Home" in which I share John's story of how he got shot, and some of his background in Afghanistan. You can read that one for the details on the specific battle of how he was shot.

a/n: I hope you have enjoyed this. One last chapter to go! Thank you all for being so patient with me at the end here. I had trouble writing the next chapter. It went through at least 5 different drafts and is still being edited! :) Please read and review!

 

Chapter Text

A/N: This is slightly longer than the other chapters, but as it is the final chapter of the story, I figured you wouldn't mind to terribly! :) Enjoy!

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John fought against the pain, consciously trying to erect a mental barrier to distance himself from it. He'd done that back when he was a kid.

No, no don't think about that.

He'd done it in the war when he'd taken shrapnel in his leg and kept moving, the day he was shot.

No. Leave that memory alone too.

Wiping the sweat and tears off his face, John reached out his free hand and asked weakly for his mobile. Greg grabbed John's coat and fished it out of the pocket. He handed it over with a worried look.

John turned it on and called Bill Murray.

"John! Are you all right? What happened? How did you…"

"I'm fine, Bill…" John broke off, his breathing still ragged.

"Bull. I know you well enough to know you're lying to me. What happened, how did you get away from him?"

"Of course you can," he replied to Bill's first statement. John choked back a laugh. "I dislocated my bad shoulder to twist out of his grip. Got a bit of a slice to my neck from a knife. We're going to the hospital to get stitches and reset my shoulder."

"Jeez, John. Are you sure…."

"I'm fine," John interrupted. "Really," he added at Bill's snort of disbelief. "Can you do me a favor? Make sure you keep an eye out. We're going to be coming out shortly and I don't want any surprises."

"You got it, mate. Once you're clear, a couple of us will stick around to make sure you get back in here safely."

"Bill," John's tone was firm, brooking no argument. "Just send the others on their way once we're rolling."

"Yeah, all right. As long as you're sure."

"I am Bill. We'll be fine now," John replied.

"You call me when you know what's going on with your shoulder. Clear?" Bill's voice was gruff with concern.

"Clear. And Bill?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell whoever took the shot, thanks."

"You're welcome, mate. A matching wound seemed appropriate, after all." Bill's voice was thick with emotion. John could tell he was struggling with the information he'd overheard.

John paused as the implication of Bill's words hit him. Quietly, his voice warm and grateful, he said, "Good shot," and ended the call.

Understanding John's reference and having overheard Bill's side of the conversation, Sherlock smiled and murmured, "Remind me to thank Bill later, as well."

oOOooOOooOOo

Seeing Mycroft had moved to the hallway, waiting for them, he looked between Sherlock and Greg. "Well, help me to my feet and let's get going. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can get home."

He smiled weakly at his friends as Sherlock helped him to his feet and Greg draped his coat over his shoulders.

They'd made it. They had reached the end of the night, Moran was in custody, and they were all alive.

The rush of relief made John light headed. As Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist, John grabbed onto his shoulder with his good arm to stay on his feet.

Clinging to his friend as they descended the stairs, John could feel the shock from his injuries kicking in. Easing through the door of Mycroft's signature black car, he settled gratefully into the leather seat. Sherlock slid in next to him. Taking a blanket Mycroft handed over, he gently tucked it in around John.

Sitting in the seat facing them, Greg and Mycroft quietly spoke about Moran's future and who was handling what as far as holding him and prosecution. John let the conversation swirl around him. Resting his head against the back of the seat, he felt Sherlock shift closer as his eyes fluttered closed.

Moran's name echoed through his thoughts and pain in his shoulder flared as the car ran over a couple of potholes. His breath left him in a rush as John smelled blood in the hot, dry air. Sand gritted in his teeth, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the blazing sun. Moaning in pain, he shook his head side to side.

I'm not there. It's just a memory. Not real, not real…

Pushing back at the memories and panic, John fought to open his eyes. As he did, Sherlock's gray eyes swam into view and met his pain hazed blue ones.

John didn't realize he'd been digging his nails into his arm until Sherlock pried his hand free and took it in his own. No longer able to distance himself from the agony, his face turned gray as he clenched his jaw. He breathed deeply to attempt to reign in the fear and keep from vomiting all over the floor of Mycroft's car. With a desperate, wordless gasp, he clung to Sherlock's hand with a bone grinding grip as the pain from his shoulder radiated up and across his chest.

He could see the distress in Sherlock's eyes, but couldn't respond to it, couldn't do more than pant desperately for air against the band of panic constricting his breathing. He heard words being muttered and tried to understand them, before he realized they were coming from him. Black spots danced across his field of vision. John continued to cling to Sherlock's hand, attempting to anchor himself in the present, rather than giving in to the images in his mind. Slowly his field of vision narrowed, his hearing dimmed and he drifted away from the torment and into the darkness beyond.

oOOooOOooOOo

John slowly swam back to consciousness. As he tried to pry his eyes open, he could feel the lingering side effects of the morphine they must have given him when he'd arrived at the hospital. He blinked and squinted against the bright lights, trying to make out the vague shapes in the room.

"John?" A hand rested on his forehead, shading his eyes as they adjusted to the light.

"Sh'lock?" John's voice cracked and broke, and he started to cough, feeling a dull pain spring up as he jarred his shoulder.

Sherlock's hand dropped from his forehead, and a cup of water was pressed to his lips. Drinking greedily, he sighed and rested his head back against the pillow of the hospital bed he found himself in. Glancing around, he could tell he was still in one of the trauma rooms of the hospital's A & E department.

Clearing his throat, John tried again. "Sherlock, how long was I out?"

"One hour and seventeen minutes," Sherlock said as he settled in the plastic chair next to John. "You would have woken sooner, but they gave you morphine right away so they could keep you relaxed enough to relocate your shoulder and stitch up the cut on your neck."

"As soon as they knew you would be all right, Mycroft and Greg headed out to deal with their separate paperwork that this affair with Moran has created them," he continued.

Sherlock answered John's next question before he could ask. "As for you, nothing was broken, just severely pulled muscles and some torn ligaments. It will be painful for a while, but no lasting damage. Your knee is sprained, from the kick you took. They wrapped it for you. Your ribs are bruised, not cracked or broken. And yes, once you're fully conscious and the doctor is satisfied with your condition, you will be released."

John smiled slightly at the factual run-down from his friend. His outward, detached rendition was belied by the concern in his eyes and the faint worried furrow on his brow.

"Sherlock, I'm fine."

"Of course you are. You took on Moran when I was incapacitated. You sustained injuries from your fight with him. You risked severe damage to your shoulder, attempting to get out of the way of the snipers. You called out our code before you were even fully out of the way. You also had a panic attack that exacerbated your pain levels and passed out in the back of Mycroft's car."

Sherlock huffed out an aggravated sigh. "You're fine. Just fine."

"Sherlock, I did what I had to do. There was no way I was going to just let him go!" In an undertone he added, "Or let him take us."

"I know, John. I know. I understand. It's just… I was…" Sherlock was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.

Eyes warm with understanding and compassion, John reached out and closed his hand around Sherlock's wrist as he picked at edge of John's blanket. Turning his attention to the doctor, John knew no words were needed when he felt Sherlock shift his hand in John's grasp until he was able to press two fingers lightly against John's pulse point.

oOOooOOooOOo

Three hours later, dawn was just lightening the sky as John and Sherlock found themselves on the sidewalk outside the hospital.

John heard Sherlock huff as a sleek black car pulled up right in front of them. His head swimming with a combination of exhaustion and the fresh dose of pain medication he'd been given, John stumbled as he started to make his way to Mycroft's car.

Sherlock's grumbling cut off as he immediately jumped to John's side. Wrapping an arm around his waist, he steadied and held him up. Only half aware of his surroundings, John allowed himself to fully rely on Sherlock's strength and guidance. He felt himself being lowered to the seat of the car. He vaguely sensed Sherlock's warmth next to him as he stayed close for support.

Blinking hard, he kept his eyes open long enough to see the two of them were alone in the car.

"It's all right now, John. Just rest. I'll still be here when you wake up."

John mumbled a vague assent, then lowered his head to gently come to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. Slowly relaxing, he felt his strength swirl away from him. His eyes fluttered shut as utter and complete fatigue pulled him under. Feeling safe and at peace for the first time in a long time, John succumbed to the gray mist of sleep.

oOOooOOooOOo

One week later

John sat straight up, his eyes wildly scanning his room. Finally registering where he was, he flopped back on the bed, hissing when the pain in his shoulder flared up as he did. He wished he could sleep without bumping it during the night. When he did, it triggered dreams of the day he was shot.

This one was particularly nasty as every soldier he treated had silvery eyes and dark curly hair. The boy he'd fallen over after he'd been shot had called his name, using Sherlock's voice, just before he woke.

He couldn't keep doing this. He needed to sleep. Slowly sitting back up again, John reached to his bedside table and shook out a couple pain killers into his hand. Fumbling for the glass of water he swallowed the pills, and settled back down. Hoping the narcotics didn't trap him in a dream, he tried to relax.

Still shaking, he draped his arm over his eyes, ignoring the tears on his cheeks. He didn't see the shadow under his door that stayed there until his breathing slowed and evened out.

oOOooOOooOOo

John blinked in the light coming in around his curtain and gently stretched out his right leg, testing his knee before sitting on the edge of his bed. Then he carefully did a couple of stretches for his shoulder. Physically, John was slowly healing from the fight a week ago. However, the nightmares were wrecking havoc with his sleep patterns. At least the pain medication had helped him fall back asleep after his nightmare last night.

Sighing and scrubbing at his eyes tiredly, he stood and eased into his dressing gown, settling his arm back into his sling.

John walked through the kitchen to the sitting room, settling in his chair with a fresh cup of tea and the paper. Leaving the paper folded on his lap, he lifted his cup to his lips, and looked through the swirls of steam at the couch.

Sherlock had been sprawled out, one arm dangling limply off the edge of the cushions, when John had come downstairs. He'd looked so relaxed, John didn't want to disturb him if he was on the edge of sleep. John had just smiled at him and nodded when Sherlock cracked open his eyes, and continued to the kitchen to make tea.

Now however, Sherlock's whole body radiated tension. His elbows were tucked in at his sides, his hands steepled under his chin. He'd drawn up his knees, so his feet could tuck in between the cushions and wrapped his dressing gown tightly around him as if pulling on armor.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock twitched slightly, his only response to John's voice. He continued to ignore the mug of tea John had made for him and set on the coffee table.

John sighed. "Sherlock, is something wrong?"

If possible, Sherlock tensed up even further before saying tightly, "No. Thinking."

John shook his head and sighed again. He put down his tea, and picked up his paper one-handed. Staring blankly at the page in front of him, John reflected back on this last week. Sherlock had been quite attentive the first couple of days, intent on making sure that John was truly all right. When he finally stopped hovering, he went out to make contact again with his Homeless Network as… well… himself and not Ollie.

However, the tension within the confines of 221B Baker Street was steadily increasing.

John didn't know what to make of it. At the beginning, he'd found himself jumping quite often when Sherlock made a noise around the flat, but that was subsiding as he became accustomed to him being home again.

He found himself constantly watching Sherlock, checking to make sure he was still there. He figured he'd eventually get over it, but maybe it was John's focus on Sherlock's whereabouts that make him seem so off.

Underlying Sherlock's terse manner, there was a frustration and an anger slowly building. John didn't know what to do about it or how to diffuse it. He conceded that it could be a lack of anything significant to do. They were waiting on the final word from the Yard, if Sherlock could be an official consultant. Once that was completed, they both would have full access to crime scenes. Sherlock seemed keen on staying around the flat, staying near John, but it was getting harder to act like things were all right, when they certainly weren't.

John shook his head and put down his paper, to pick up his tea again. A couple of nights ago, he and Sherlock went to dinner with Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly for the first time since he'd been back. It was the only time all week that John saw Sherlock relax and seem even remotely like himself.

He hoped things would settle soon. This wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting once Sherlock was able to officially come home.

oOOooOOooOOo

The morning wore on accompanied by the clinking of glass as Sherlock set up his science equipment and microscope on the kitchen table again. John walked around him to retrieve his laptop and the framed photo of the two of them off the end of the counter. He wandered to the desk, setting the two items down. John thought fondly of the times, before, when he and Sherlock had worked on their own things around the flat. They hadn't needed constant conversation. There had been a comfortable, comforting peace as they worked or relaxed near each other.

However, this silence was anything but comfortable. Sherlock barely said two words to him, just muttered under his breath. He brushed past him roughly and frequently went to his room, slamming his door shut behind him.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. Rather, he yelled through his closed bedroom door.

"John! Where are the rest of my beakers and my chemicals?" He stormed out of his room and down the hall to the kitchen. "Don't tell me you threw them out!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to reign in the confusion and frustration that had steadily mounted with every loud noise and muffled curse.

"Why would I throw them out? I never touched your science stuff. Did you look in 221C? Maybe you overlooked a box down there."

"Of course I didn't overlook anything, John. Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped, his tone cold and contemptuous.

John stared for a moment at the man in front of him. Sherlock's face looked like it had been chiseled out of marble. His silvery eyes pierced through him, analyzing and deducing his every word and expression. The distance in his attitude and actions cut into John more than Sherlock's words and tone had.

This man was a far cry from the one who had walked back into his life just over a week ago. He knew Sherlock would never be emotive, especially outside of the flat. However, something had changed since Moran's arrest, or rather, since the day after his arrest and their return from the hospital. He felt like he was looking at the stranger his flatmate had been when they first moved in together.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, John stared straight back into Sherlock's shuttered eyes. Forcing his frustration and confusion out of his voice, his face carefully blank, he said, "I have no idea where all of your things are. Don't you recall me telling you I wasn't able to bring myself to touch any of your things?" John internally cursed his voice for wavering on the last few words. "If you can remember your manners and act civilized, maybe Mrs. Hudson can help you."

"That's rich, John. Mrs. Hudson was the one who had to pack things away? I suppose I shouldn't have expected a crippled army doctor to be able to handle moving it for her. I mean really, as soon as I was dead you just fell apart. Interesting. Had I realized the extent of your dependency, I would have experimented with your issues far sooner."

Sherlock sneered, "A broken down army doctor, falling back on the family crutch of alcohol, barely able to do his job and redeveloping a psychosomatic limp after the loss of a colleague. I should have known you would revert to your previous dull existence, like the rest of the ordinary masses that wander this city."

"You just couldn't keep up, ever. Don't worry about your feeble attempts to help Lestrade. Now that I'm back I can help him actually catch up on his case load. I don't need you." Sherlock's voice got impossibly colder. "You're just dead weight, and I refuse to drag along someone so useless and inept."

John mentally reeled under the verbal attack. Every word purposely aimed at his weaknesses and insecurities shredded him a little more. John gaped at Sherlock for a moment, then said in a stunned voice that quickly filled with anger, "How. Dare. You! Who do you think you are, to talk to me like that? After all that I… What gives you the right…" John interrupted himself, stumbling over his own words. "Do you… No, no. Just. No! We're not doing this!"

John snapped his mouth shut before he could say anything he might regret. Swiping up the photo off the top of his computer on the desk, he turned and nearly marched out of the room and up the stairs. Kicking his door shut behind him, he walked over to his bed and sank down on it, staring at the picture in his hand, the anger quickly drained out of him, leaving him breathless and confused.

Looking down at photograph of the smiling face and warm eyes of his best friend, he whispered, "What the hell is going on, Sherlock? I don't understand."

Gently standing the photo on his bedside table, John turned and lay down on his back, his head on his pillow. He could hear Sherlock pacing restlessly downstairs. He scrolled back through the last five days or so, replaying all their interactions. His lips thinned and pressed tightly together as he realized how many times Sherlock had thrown insults his way in that short amount of time. Every question had been deflected, every comment sneered at, and every conversation shut down.

John realized that even though Sherlock was physically back, he desperately longed for his best friend to return, as well.

Angrily, John scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his dressing gown. Changing quickly out of his pajamas and pulling on warm clothes, he put his arm back in the sling, strapping it in place as snugly as he could. He left his room, descending the stairs rapidly.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock looked up at the door, pausing in his pacing.

"Where are you going?" he snapped.

"Out," John said, shortly.

"Where," demanded Sherlock.

"Observe and deduce, Sherlock. You're so good at it after all." John all but spat the words at him, bitterness coloring his tone. He turned abruptly, nearly running down the stairs and out the door.

Sherlock moved quickly to the window, nearly vibrating with suppressed frustration and anger. He watched John storm down the street, cradling his arm, but nearly jogging in his effort to flee Baker Street more quickly.

He spun away from the window, stalking through the kitchen to his bedroom and slammed the door. Flopping down dramatically on the bed, he closed his eyes to better picture how John looked before he ran down the stairs.

Eyes suspiciously shiny and red rimmed. Blue eyes normally warm and friendly, appeared icy and distant. Body radiated tension and anger. Trainers on his feet and layered against the cool weather.

I hurt him and made him angry with me. He's prepared to walk, or run, and stay out for a while based on the shoes and layers.

Sherlock groaned, reached for a pillow, and wrapped himself around it. He didn't know what he was doing or what was wrong with him. He just wanted things back to normal, but John had said they needed to talk later. The likelihood of their conversation having a positive outcome was decreasing hourly the longer it was delayed. Trying to distance himself from John was proving harder than he thought, now that he was home. His reaction and the subsequent sentiment would be nearly intolerable once John threw him out.

He curled into a ball on his side, clutching the pillow tighter. Slowly his exhaustion took over and the tension drained out of him. His eyes fluttered shut as his mind drifted. Sherlock's fists eventually relaxed and his breathing deepened as he drifted to sleep.

Impressions, not images flooded Sherlock's dreams. He shook his head back and forth in his sleep against the terror invading his mind. Stubbornly, Sherlock clung to the knowledge he was on his bed in his room trying to force himself awake. Fighting against the demons of his sleeping thoughts, he burst into the waking world, muffling his shout in the pillow in his arms.

Rolling onto his back, he fished his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown and saw he'd only been asleep an hour. Rubbing his face, he was frustrated partially that he'd not been able to sleep longer without the dreams, but also that he'd been unable to avoid sleep. Sherlock sat up on the edge of his bed.

Pulling himself to his feet, Sherlock meandered back through the kitchen to the sitting room, and to the window behind his chair. Leaning his head against the cool window, he stared vacantly at the street below. Eventually he turned his back on the outside world and scanned the sitting room once before his eyes rested on his violin case.

Kneeling down, he reached over and carefully opened the case. Reverently, he touched the strings of his violin, setting them humming. Gently he lifted the instrument from its case and slowly set about tuning it. He picked up the bow, and with it poised above the strings, he paused.

Sherlock froze in that position, other than the slight trembling of his hands. He closed his eyes, desperately wanting to draw the bow across the strings, but unable to bring himself to do so.

After nearly thirty minutes, he allowed his arm holding the bow drop to his side. This was the closest he'd gotten to playing since he'd returned. He desperately wanted to, but something kept stopping him. Eventually he lowered the delicate instrument and rested it back in its case.

Putting everything back where he'd found it, the room suddenly felt oppressive. He found himself struggling for air. He reached out and partially opened the window. Moving quickly to the other one, he opened it as well for good measure. He backed away a couple of steps before he turned and rushed over to the sofa, flinging himself down on it. Sherlock lost himself in his thoughts as time ebbed.

oOOooOOooOOo

He kept replaying the monologue Moran had given while he was holding John captive. He could see John's fury as Moran revealed he'd been the one to shoot John and end his career. Though Sherlock couldn't be sorry that John got sent home, since it meant they had the opportunity to meet, he despised the idea that Moran had caused it.

As Moran had described what he was going to do to John, to torture him just to use him to get to Sherlock, he'd felt himself start to fall apart. It had been worse than seeing John strapped into the Semtex. The panic that had come over John's face when Moran described his creativity made Sherlock think that Moran had been "creative" with John before. The idea made him feel nauseous.

On their way to the hospital, the panic attack John had in the car frightened Sherlock. When he dug his fingernails of his good hand so hard into his other arm, John started to draw blood. Just before he passed out from the pain and the erratic breathing pattern, he mumbled something. Words Sherlock hoped to never hear again. Though Sherlock knew logically John had been experiencing a flash back due to the injury of his shoulder, hearing him say "Please God, let me live," nearly made his heart stop.

Then Sherlock had talked to Bill Murray. He'd called him to thank him for taking the shot that put Moran out of commission. In the course of their conversation, Bill said something about a prearranged plan. Sherlock pretended understanding until Bill spelled out the whole thing. John had arranged with Bill that if he was in Moran's hands, and called out their signal, the snipers were supposed to take the shot at Moran, even if it was through John.

Bill assured Sherlock he'd never passed that order on to the other snipers. He'd insisted if John was determined that they had to go through him to take out Moran, he would be the one to do it. Bill had refused to let anyone else take responsibility for a shot like that but himself.

Sherlock was still struggling with the idea that John had effectively ordered Bill to shoot him just to incapacitate Moran. He knew it was similar to what he'd done that day on the roof of St. Bart's, but it felt completely different. His head knew that John's willingness to be shot, just to take out Moran to protect him was no different than Sherlock's willingness to jump to protect John. However, something inside of him was protesting, and he didn't understand.

oOOooOOooOOo

When his mobile pinged with an incoming text, Sherlock nearly flipped himself off the sofa in his hurry to answer it. Glancing at the time, he realized John had been gone over six hours. He frowned at the screen, recognizing Greg Lestrade's number.

What the hell did you do, Sherlock? GL

…

Let me rephrase that. What the hell did you say? GL

Have you seen John? SH

Answer my question first. GL

Ah. So you have. SH

I didn't say that. Stop stalling. GL

If you didn't see him, then he must have told you what I said. SH

No. He didn't. That's why I'm asking. GL

Wait. Never mind. GL

I don't want to know. I just want you to fix it. GL

…

…

There is no fixing this, Greg. SH

Are you seriously giving up after all you've gone through to keep us safe, to keep him safe? GL

I said many inexcusable things. I don't think there is any way John is coming back here, other than for his belongings. SH

That's not true and you know it. GL

I know him. And so do you. I saw how he was when you were gone. There is no way he is going to walk away from you now. I don't know what you said. I don't need to. But whatever it was hurt him badly and made him angry. He just needs to cool off a bit before he comes home. GL

I don't know what to do. SH

I won't hold that against you. GL

…

When he gets home, talk to him. Whatever is wrong that's causing you to act the way you are, it's not going to get better unless you talk to him. GL

Promise me, Sherlock. GL

Sherlock looked for a long moment at that last text. He wearily dropped his head and tried to think a few minutes before he started typing again.

All right. I promise. As long as I can have a place to stay when he kicks me out.

Before he hit send, Sherlock looked again at what he'd typed. Pausing, he deleted it and started over.

All right. I will talk to him. SH

Thank you. GL

Sherlock nearly groaned in frustration as he tossed his mobile down on the coffee table. Curling up in the corner of the sofa, he waited for John to decide to return home.

oOOooOOooOOo

Hours after he'd left, John returned to Baker Street. Sighing, he opened the door and slipped out of his trainers before climbing the stairs. No lights were on, and there were no signs of life.

Hoping Sherlock was sleeping for the first time in three days, he moved as quietly as he could all the way up to his room. Grabbing pajamas and robe, he headed for a shower. Waiting for the water to heat, John knew he hadn't done his shoulder any favors by staying out so long in the damp air and letting himself get so cold. He stepped into the steaming shower, allowing it to ease his aching muscles. By the time he finished and dressed, his body felt more relaxed, but the ache in his heart and the anxiety in his mind remained.

Chewing on his lower lip in worry, he took a deep breath and descended the stairs, determined to take Greg's advice from their earlier conversation. One way or another he was going to get to the bottom of what was happening with his friend.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock still sat curled up on the end of the sofa, immoveable as a statue. He deduced John was hoping he was sleeping, by the care he took coming in. From his rate of his footfalls on the stairs and purposely controlled breathing pattern, he knew John had walked nearly the entire time he'd been gone.

Nearly seven hours of wandering the city nonstop. Despite himself, and the cutting, damaging remarks he'd made earlier, he was more than impressed. He didn't dare breathe as John paused on the landing outside the sitting room before continuing up to his room. He relaxed a little when he heard John's shower start, knowing he had a little more time to gather his thoughts and prepare himself.

The only problem was, he didn't know what to say.

Keeping as still as possible, he heard John descend the stairs again and head directly for the kitchen. The small light over the sink clicked on, spilling gently through the door to the sitting room, providing just enough illumination to make out the shapes of the furniture. The muted sounds of John filling the kettle and preparing tea filtered out of the kitchen.

He heard John sigh and pick up something from a kitchen chair. Material. Heavy. It must be my coat.

John padded silently around the corner of the kitchen to the sitting room, and gently hung the Belstaff on a hook behind the door. Occupied with what he was doing, he didn't glance toward the sofa, didn't notice Sherlock sitting there watching him from underneath his hair that hung low over his eyes.

Sherlock froze as he watched John reverently run his free hand down the side of the coat once he hung it. With great care, he folded Sherlock's scarf and slid it into one pocket, then laying his leather gloves together, slid them into the other.

He heard John's gentle sigh, heavy with emotion. Possible sorrow?

Then he whispered quietly, to himself, "His coat's here, so hopefully he is, unless… No, he has to be here." Rubbing his forehead head wearily, he muttered something else under his breath that Sherlock didn't catch, before walking back into the kitchen.

After only taking a couple of steps, he heard John pause, then continue through the kitchen, down the hall to his room. There was a gentle tap on the partially closed door, and John called softly, "Sherlock? Are you in here?" A moment later, he heard his door swing open, then John's footsteps returned to the kitchen after finding no one.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against his knees, knowing he was moments away from being discovered by John. Despite himself, he felt his heart rate increase, along with his breathing. He clasped his arms more tightly around his legs and waited. He heard John pause as the kettle clicked off, then a few more steps and a sharp intake of breath as he cleared the doorway and spotted him in the dim light.

oOOooOOooOOo

When John realized Sherlock had to be in the flat and wasn't in his room, he knew instinctively where he was. Sure enough, peering through the gloom, he saw the dark shadow of his friend, curled up in one corner of the sofa.

Taking in his defensive position and tension radiating from him, John breathed Sherlock's name gently.

Sherlock didn't move as John walked slowly closer, taking in more details as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. As he neared his side, Sherlock's hands gripped the sides of his legs and his head burrowed even further into his knees, his shoulders hunched. He flinched when John's fingers ghosted over his shoulder, before settling there.

John could feel minute shivers running through his friend. Even his shoulder was cool to the touch. John became aware of the icy temperature of the room for the first time. Glancing at the windows, he saw both partially open, letting in the cold, damp night air.

Cursing under his breath, he snatched the blanket off the back of the sofa, forcing Sherlock to lean forward far enough to tuck it behind him, bringing the ends around in front of him. Kneeling down next to him, he laid his hand over one of Sherlock's hands where it clenched the fabric of his trousers. Gently prying at the frozen fingers, he finally got Sherlock to hang onto the blanket instead, to keep it wrapped around him.

Moving swiftly from his side, John slammed the windows shut and knelt down by the fireplace. He knew he needed to get Sherlock warmed up. Even with only one mobile arm, he made short work of getting the fire started. Heading back to the kitchen, John pulled down a second mug to make tea for the infuriating man curled up so miserably on the sofa.

oOOooOOooOOo

Placing two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, he disappeared back through the kitchen, returning dragging Sherlock's duvet behind him.

"Come on, uncurl a bit and let me get this around you."

Sherlock silently cooperated, dropping his knees and tucking his feet under him. As John yanked the duvet behind him awkwardly with one hand, Sherlock reached out and helped pull it the rest of the way around him. John handed him his tea, then sat down on the other end of the sofa with his own.

John stared at the fire, cupping his hands around his mug. He could feel Sherlock staring at him, but refused to make eye contact. He didn't guard his thoughts or expressions, but didn't offer anything up either. After all that had happened that day, and his own conversations with Phoebe and Greg, Sherlock had to start this one.

He knew he'd baffled Sherlock by his obvious concern, taking care of him as soon as he'd found him. Especially after the verbal abuse that had been hurled at him before he left that morning and the amount of time he'd been gone. But, if John had learned nothing else during his life, it was how to be patient. He could feel Sherlock shift uncomfortably on the couch, and knew his wait was almost over.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John…" Sherlock paused, his voice sounding oddly thick. He cleared his throat and started again.

"John, can we just get this over with?"

"Get what over with, Sherlock?" John turned to see Sherlock's eyes peering at him from the bundle of blankets, shining in the firelight.

"The talk you said we needed to have. You said to lock everything away until we were done with Moran. I did. But we still haven't talked." Sherlock spoke quietly into the darkened room, but John could hear a whole mix of underlying emotions.

John reflexively closed his eyes and grimaced in sympathy as the implications hit him. Sherlock had been waiting this whole week for John to start their conversation regarding his decisions before and during his confrontation with Moriarty, and his actions after the fact, and John's reaction to it all. And, judging from the emotions he was trying to hide, Sherlock had been figuratively bleeding out in front of him all week.

Sherlock kept talking, unaware of John's realization. "I know that you're upset. When most people say 'we need to talk' it doesn't bode well for the relationship. So, just get it over with and leave, or I will leave, whichever you deem appropriate."

"Sherlock…" John said.

"You might have to give me a couple of days. Though I suppose I could stay with Mycroft until I find another flat to…"

"Sherlock!" John thumped his mug down on the coffee table.

His exclamation and action caused Sherlock to jump and stop talking. He turned to look at John, his face forced into an expression of neutrality, and his eyes guarded. He looked as if he were ready to just hear John's confirmation of his expectations. He appeared to be ready to launch off the couch in a matter of moments.

John scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face, then through his hair.

"Sherlock, I am not going to kick you out. Nor am I going to leave you…"

"No, John. You don't need to try to spare me. I know that I betrayed your trust, and I now know how much I hurt you with my absence and not letting you know I was still alive. The week before we captured Moran showed me how much I underestimated your acting capabilities." He shook his head. "I always underestimate you," sighed Sherlock. Setting down his mug on the coffee table, he turned his face away, looking towards the window.

The glimpse John saw of Sherlock's face reflected an immeasurable sorrow. John's breath caught in his throat. In response, he moved across the sofa to sit right next to Sherlock.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock stared out the window in the dark. The pain and sadness welling up within him was nearly overwhelming. He'd hidden everything away until they had gotten Moran, just as John had asked. Now, he didn't know what to expect. The uncertainty was unnerving, especially when all he could imagine was what he would do himself at such a betrayal.

The knowledge that John was willing to be shot just to get Moran out of the picture, was causing him to struggle with a few unwanted emotions.

But John. John was much more emotional and reactive than he was. And Sherlock's actions had consequences that reached much further. He understood that these years had been hard for John. Perhaps it was too much to expect from him to hope...

Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder.

John's voice sounded in his ear. "Sherlock, I need you to look at me."

Sherlock turned at the tone of John's voice more than because of what he said. John's voice was soft, and when he looked at his friend, he saw only concern and gentleness. Before he could say anything, John stopped him.

John looked at him earnestly, hiding nothing. "I am not going to abandon you. I just got you back. There is no way I am walking out on you."

Sherlock tried to speak.

"No. Wait. I'm not done yet," John interrupted.

Sherlock watched as John closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts.

"First, I am not leaving, or kicking you out. Just get that idea right out of your head and out of the way. Second, you have to hear this too."

John paused and took a deep breath. "You did what you had to do. You made the best decision you could have in an intolerable situation. In the all out war Moriarty started, you made the end move, doing the only thing possible to save as many people as you could with no assurance of the outcome."

Sherlock studied John intently for a moment. John's expression was earnest and his blue eyes were full of warmth and sincerity. He thought John couldn't surprise him more, until he heard his next words.

"And if I had been in your place, I would have done the same thing."

Sherlock inhaled sharply and then, as he breathed out, he felt some of his tension dissipate.

"You did," Sherlock whispered, "With your decision about how to take out Moran."

John looked at him intently, before admitting quietly, "You're right, I guess I did that too, didn't I?

Sherlock slowly slid further back on the sofa, and slouched down, resting his head on the back. John settled in next to him, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Their shoulders brushed as John laughed a bit. "You are such an idiot sometimes, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, trying to figure out what exactly John meant.

As if he sensed Sherlock's consternation, John said, "We could have avoided this whole day, if you'd only talked to me once I was feeling better. It would have been so much easier."

Sherlock huffed a bit and said, "I rarely do anything the easy way, it seems."

John laughed lightly, "No, no you don't."

Sherlock felt his lips lift in a slight smile before he sobered again, turning slightly to see John's face. "John, what I said before – um, before you left." Sherlock paused then continued in a rush. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. None of it was true. I – I was just…"

John reached over and laid a gentling hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock could feel his muscles slowly relax under his friend's touch.

"I forgive you," John said. "And, I'm sorry too. I didn't think about you. I have been so thankful to have you back that I have just been trying to soak that in, and forgot about the conversation we needed to have. I realize now you were trying to push me away to protect yourself before I pushed you away."

As John talked, Sherlock allowed himself to unwind further and let down his guard. Now that he knew John wasn't going to kick him out of his life, he found the heaviness that had weighed him down all week start to lift. Feeling a tug on the edge of his duvet he glanced down at John's hand with a frown before looking back up at his face.

John smiled and said, "We can at least start this conversation tonight, but you have got to share some of this duvet with me. It's still bloody cold in here because some git opened the windows!"

Sherlock chuckled slightly and untangled himself so he could share half the blanket with his friend. As they settled in for a long overdue discussion, he let himself realize that now it honestly was over. He was done.

The final problem had been solved.

Sherlock knew it was going to take time and hard work to lay out new boundaries and guidelines; to rebuild their friendship; to come back to life. But it would worth all of it because they could do it together. They no longer had to be alone.

oOOooOOooOOo

Two weeks later, John turned the corner onto Baker Street. He'd finished a long day at the HNM Care. It was late, and his leg was aching. He hoped that he and Sherlock could just have a night in. They'd finished with a case very late Friday night, and he'd only had three hours of sleep going into a long day at one of the shelters.

Opening the door and hanging his jacket on the hook at the bottom of the stairs, John paused as he heard a familiar sound drift down from above. Toeing out of his shoes, John picked them up and silently made his way up to the flat.

Avoiding all the steps that creaked, John paused in the doorway to the sitting room. He leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe, smiling at the sight in front of him.

Sherlock stood, silhouetted in front of the window, his violin resting under his chin, swaying in time to the sweet melody swirling around him. John's smile grew wider as he watched his friend, whose eyes were closed, as he fully engaged in the music.

John quietly set his shoes down just outside the door and padded his way to the kitchen. Starting the kettle, he dropped tea bags into two mugs. Carefully stretching both arms above his head before dropping them to his sides, John leaned his back against the counter and watched his friend until the kettle clicked off. Turning to the mugs, John poured the water in, and waited for them to steep. The familiar act of making tea helped him slowly release the tension from the day.

Adding cream to Sherlock's mug, and cream and sugar to his own, he stirred them and then headed into the sitting room. Approaching Sherlock, he set his tea down on the desk nearby. As he headed back to his chair he heard Sherlock hum his acknowledgement. John smiled to himself again as he settled in his chair by the fire. He held his mug close to his face, feeling himself warmed from the inside out.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock studied his friend from underneath his half closed lids. The firelight flickered across John's face as he slowly sipped his tea and stared into the flames. He hadn't said a word as he'd come in. As a matter of fact, Sherlock hadn't noticed he'd come home until he was already in the kitchen starting tea. He could tell that John hadn't wanted to disturb him, as this was the first time he'd actually heard Sherlock play since he'd returned.

Sherlock noted that John added extra cream and sugar to his own tea. John only did that when he'd had a hard day and was exceptionally tired, or was feeling sick. Observing the state of his clothes and expression on his face, Sherlock surmised it was the difficulty of the day and the patients he saw at the HNM Care rather than a personal illness that prompted the change.

Seamlessly, Sherlock switched to Brahms, picking a piece John had always responded to. As he did, he saw John's expression lighten. Their eyes met and John's reflected honest appreciation and admiration. The corners of Sherlock's lip curled slightly in a smile in response.

He watched in satisfaction as John let the rest of his concerns go in response to the music. As the melody washed through the flat, down the stairs and even through Mrs. Hudson's door, where she was listening in, it swept out the cobwebs of sorrow and loneliness. In its wake, the lilting notes wove a sense of peace, hope and even love. There would be arguments and slammed doors, moments of sadness and loss, but also ones of joy and happiness, laughter and playfulness.

In other words, things would return to normal.

Well, as normal as anything ever got at 221B Baker Street.

---

a/n: The end! Thank you so much to all of you who have been following and reading this! There may be more in this "Universe/head canon" that I have going. Whether that fits in with the Season 3 episodes or not, that remains to be seen. If not, consider this a slight AU! I hope you enjoyed. After a brief break, more stories will be forthcoming. I just put every other plot bunny on vacation as I finished this story, so I could actually complete it! Now I have to call various plot bunnies back to work. We'll see how it goes! ;)

Thank you again for all your support! I could have never done this without you!

Blessings! hjohn302