Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Up, John.  Get up.  I need your help.  Pack for three nights, maybe four.”

“I’m sleeping.  Piss off.”

“I knew that would come eventually,” Sherlock said with slight sourness.

“Come back in two hours and ask nicely,” John said as he pulled the pillow over his head.

“We will miss our flight if I wait two hours,” Sherlock said sitting on the edge of the bed.

“Flight to where?” John mumbled from under the pillow, now resigned to being awake.

“Rome.”

“Dare I ask?  What’s in Rome?”

“A case John.  A good one.”

“Right.  Put the kettle on.  I’m going to need at least two coffees before we leave.  And you’re ringing Sarah to explain.  She already hates you anyway,” John had told him.

***

They had already been in the air for an hour when Sherlock had asked, “Do you think your masculinity could handle it if you were required to act as my partner for the duration of this case?”

John could see his colour rise in his reflection in the window he’d been staring out of.  “Sorry, what?”

“For the case, of course.  I wouldn’t ask except that it is important.  Could be dangerous too.”

“Why is it important?  What is this case about anyway?” John asked, keen to change the subject.  John didn’t want to think about them pretending to be in a relationship.  Not because of his, apparently fragile, masculinity but because of the potential for it to stir up some very real emotions. 

“Henry Marshal, a campaigner for anti-homophobia laws in Italy and specifically in the Vatican City, contacted me through the night.  His partner, Danny Richmond, has gone missing.  Henry suspects that officials have taken Danny to deter him from pursuing the campaign.”

“Do you think they have taken him?”

“I don’t know; perhaps Danny just got sick of everything and left.  They’d had bricks thrown through their windows on three occasions.  Their tires have been slashed twice.  Henry was bashed last month.  He spent three nights in hospital.”

“Bloody hell,” John said, now seeing why Sherlock had suggested it was possibly dangerous.

“I need to blend into Henry’s world.  To see its inner workings.  Will you help me?”

“Yeah, righto.”

“I know you’ve told me repeatedly that you’re not gay, but we will only be pretending while in public, and only for a couple of days.  A bit of holding hands and visiting tourist attractions should do it.  No one knows us there and you can go right back to chasing women when we get home.”

“I said, alright.”

With that, Sherlock placed a small blue velvet jewellery box on John’s tray table.  The ring fitted perfectly and matched the one that Sherlock slipped onto his own finger.  John stared down at it with a tight feeling in his stomach.

***

“The way you keep fiddling with that, we had best pretend it is new.  Married yesterday.” Sherlock had whispered as his larger hand encircled John’s.  John had hummed in agreement, unable to think of anything other than the hand that had encircled his own.  Sherlock’s hand was larger than his, so much so, that when Sherlock had moved his thumb along the back of John’s hand it run all the way from his wrist to where the wedding band had wrapped his ring finger.  It had given John a shivery feeling that he wasn’t familiar with.  That had been the moment that John had known for sure that he was lost to Sherlock forever. 

That thought had been so distracting that he had not even registered that Sherlock had checked them into the honeymoon suite under the name Watson-Holmes until they were nearly at the elevator.

***

For two days they had posed as a couple; sightseeing, having lavish candle lit dinners, tours of the Vatican, attending meetings with Henry and his fallow campaigners.  All the while Sherlock quietly investigated the disappearance of Danny Richmond.  Mostly by night but at other times slipping away to ask questions or listen in on government officials.

Many times, John had felt eyes following them.  At first, he assumed it was because he felt conspicuous in his role, but as days went by, he became sure they were being watched, possibly followed.

That night, as they lay stiffly on the far opposite sides of the king-sized bed, Sherlock had said, “Did you see the white van?”

“The plumbers van?

“Yeah, it had the same number plate as the Electrician’s van that was stopped across the road from Henry’s.”

“We are being followed then?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think Danny is still alive?”

“I’m beginning to doubt it.  They’d have made demands by now.”

There was a pause but neither of them neared sleep.  After a time, Sherlock spoke.  “If they make a move.  It’s important that we don’t get separated.”

***

It was the next day, as the van sidled up beside them that Sherlock had spontaneously dragged John into the gift shop that they were passing.  They had hoped that those following them would get bored and leave.

They browsed the shops shelves and cabinets.  Amongst the rosary beads and crucifixes of every colour and description was the little soft pink cameo on its silver chain.  It was so different from the other items.  The boyish cherub with his bow and arrow stood out.  John had pointed to it, and falling into their role, they had made quips about it being their cupid. 

The assistant, noticing their interest had come over and told them the history of the item.  Neither of them had really been listening.  Both instead watching as two men exited the van and entered the store.  As the men circled the shop, they had both acted as if the cameo was the most interesting thing in their worlds.  John had nearly choked when the shop assistant had told them the price of the little item, but Sherlock had just handed her a credit card.  The men apparently convinced they were really shopping, had moved back towards the van, sliding the side door wide open.  It was then that Sherlock had causally looked over towards the van.  John’s eyes had followed his.  There in the dim light of the van was a wide-eyed Danny Richmond.  His mouth was taped shut and he had blood running in a dark smudge down the side of his face.  The door was already rolling shut as John registered what he had seen.

Sherlock’s long legs carried him out of the shop before John could even move.  For a beat, John had looked between Sherlock’s back and the cashier.  He went to follow, paused, took back Sherlock’s credit card that the assistant held out and as an afterthought snatched the cameo off the countertop before she could even package it up. 

He stepped out into the bright daylight just in time to see Sherlock step out onto the road, his eyes following the van that sped away.  There was a screech of tires in the moment before an oncoming car struck Sherlock.  John couldn’t see where Sherlock fell, but he ran towards him, his mind racing through possible scenarios.  Thinking the worst as he rounded the parked cars and stepped only the road.  But Sherlock was on his knees, scrambling up, clutching his side, limping towards the driver faster than John could get to him.  The driver; out of his car, concerned, gesticulating and taking in quick agitated Italian.  Sherlock pushed him aside and got behind the wheel.

“Get in,” Sherlock shouted across the roof to John, “Hurry.”

“Bloody bollock,” John muttered as he wrenched open the passenger door.  Climbing in as Sherlock was pressing his foot to the peddle.  “We are going to be arrested, Sherlock.  We just stole a car.”

“He ran me over first, so I think we are even.” 

“I don’t think it works like that,” John said, as he was doing up his seatbelt and clutching for the door handle.  “You didn’t even look before you ran out.”

“They drive on the wrong side of the road here.”

“Try to remember that so you don’t get us both killed, yeah.”

Sherlock didn’t reply.  His eyes pinned to the van ahead of them as he sped through the traffic.  Taking bends too quickly and darting between vehicles.  Shouting at one to, “Get out of the way.”

“Seat belt,” John said firmly. 

Sherlock grunted dismissively but yanked at the belt while he wrestled the car along a rough patch of road.  The seatbelt jammed.  He tugged again.  Swore softly. 

“Let me.”  John reached over, bracing one hand against the seat while the other snaked across Sherlock’s chest to grip the belt.  Waiting for a moment, when the car was steady, he pulled the belt across Sherlock’s chest and clicked it into the buckle.  Sherlock grimaced.

“Are you hurt?” John asked.

“It’s nothing.” 

“Where is this nothing?”

Sherlock nodded to his right side.  John reached out to tug up his shirt, but Sherlock snapped at him to leave it and waved him away as the van disappeared into a narrow alleyway.  Moments later they screeched to a halt behind the van. 

They left the stolen car on an angle that blocked the van in.  The van had only been out of sight for moments but when Sherlock and John got out the men were nowhere to be seen.  Only a swinging door gave them any indication as to where they had gone.  Sherlock was leading, his posture slightly skewed, as they entered cautiously, following echoing footsteps into a strange eerie darkness that led down.  It was cooler in the winding catacombs beneath the streets.  They made their way by touch and sound and occasionally by the dim light of their phones when they needed to look for footprints when they couldn’t decide their way, but mostly the sounds from their quarry were enough to lead them through the winding dark.  John stayed close, able to feel the heat of Sherlock’s body in the sudden cold.  Sherlock’s words ringing in his ears.  It’s important that we don’t get separated.  He followed in Sherlock’s footsteps until he was told, by a silent palm against his chest and a finger pressed to the middle of his lips to stay still and silent. 

Sherlock stepped away, the almost imperceptible echo of his footsteps changing as he stepped into a more open area.  A light flickered and then Sherlock was illuminated as he approached Danny, who was tied to a simple wooden chair in the centre of the space.  His mouth covered in thick electrical tape that was streaked with blood from his nose.  His eyes were runny, and he looked sheepish in his hunched silence. 

Sherlock spun around, scanning the space, alarmed in the sudden dim yellow light, but he was unable to see anyone, but the man tied to the chair.  Shrugging, he moved to the man and began to untie him.  John scanned the fringes of darkness from his place in the shadows.  From his right, in another entry to the space he saw a hint of movement.  Something reminiscent of a gun being raised.  Then another movement from his left.  In seconds, Sherlock would be surrounded.  John needed to warn him, to get his attention, without giving himself away.  He reached for his gun, but his fingers met something else in his pocket.  The cameo.

An idea formed.  Half-baked and so silly he nearly snorted a laugh. 

Stepping away from the wall, John released the cameo in a tight little overarm throw.  It hit Sherlock in the back, just below his shoulder and dropped to the ground.  Startled, Sherlock didn’t hesitate.  He dropped down before he even registered what had hit him.  The first shot whistled over his head a millisecond before the gunshot deafened them.  John was returning fire from his alcove as Sherlock cut through the tape that held Danny and pulled him down to the ground.  Skuttling towards John as he held the other men at bay with a volley of shots. 

John pushed Sherlock and Danny ahead and then moved backwards through the dark, ready to fire if they were followed.  The occasional tug at his shirt told him when to turn to navigate the corners of the dark passages.  They progressed this way until they were back in the baking sun.  They hadn’t considered themselves safe until they had delivered Danny back into the care of his husband with instructions that they should leave the country as soon as possible.  Even then they didn’t relax until they were back in their lavish room. 

Despite handling the rescue and delivery of Danny with barely a grimace Sherlock had crumpled to the bed the moment they were inside. 

“You ok?” John asked, after he locked the door and fastened the security chain. 

Sherlock hadn’t looked up but lifted a hand to wave John away.

“Yeah, thought so.  You did get hit by a car.”

“It wasn’t going very fast.” 

“Let me take a look at you.”  John looked sternly down on his injured friend.  Sherlock stared up for a moment as if contemplating how easily he could avoid John’s scrutiny.  Apparently, something in John’s expression convinced him that his chances were nil.  Sherlock groaned and awkwardly propped himself up on one elbow.  He took John’s offered hand and pulled himself fully upright.  Resigned, Sherlock started unbuttoning his shirt.  A large purple bruise marred the side of his torso. 

Taking his time, John poked and prodded, checking for anything more suspicious than bruising, strained muscles, and cracked ribs.  Satisfied that this wasn’t the foolishness that would get Sherlock killed, John shrugged, somewhat unsympathetic to the results of Sherlock’s latest stupidity.  “You’ll live but look left and right next time.”

Sherlock snorted, winced, and pushed past John to go to the window where he stood looking down on the streets below in the fading light.  Unconcerned now, John watched on as Sherlock studied the street.  He had gone quiet, the way he always did when a case wound up, but without the satisfaction of a neatly tied string of organised events.  They had rescued the victim, but they hadn’t identified the people who had taken him.  When Henry had asked if there had been an arrest Sherlock had said, “Who cares if it’s solved.  You have your husband back.  That was all you specified; that was the agreement.”

But John knew it was grating at him.  He knew Sherlock rarely took a case for the ‘mere’ solution to the problem that was initially presented. He always found a subtext that was far more interesting.  They hadn’t fixed a single one of the problem in this great grand city, nor could they.  John knew that Sherlock would be pensive for days, especially with the addition of his uncomfortable injuries.  John sighed, wondering how he could help.  

Sherlock turned when he heard the water begin to run into the deep tub that was sunk into the floor.  It was awkwardly placed in the large room.  Unlike the bathroom, with its heavy door the tub had no privacy from anyone else in the room.  The oversized bath was close enough to the windows that anyone in there could look out of the windows and watched the world go by.  Sherlock looked at John with a quizzical tilt of the head.  “I’ll step out, if you want to clean up, I can get us something to eat.”

“It’s for you,” John said, quietly.

“Oh.”

“You’ll feel better, it might loosen up a few muscles.”

Sherlock nodded. “I didn’t bring my bathing suit.”

“I don’t think that matters in here,” John said.  Sherlock was self-conscious in a way that John had never witnessed as he helped him out of his clothing.  Sherlock batted his hands away, but chuckling when John, holding up his left hand, thumbing the wedding band, said, “What are you worried about, we’re fake married?”

With an amused smile, Sherlock relented.  Allowing John to help him into the tub as he held a hand towel against his crutch.  The bruising and grazes continued down his hip and thigh, making him hiss as he sunk into the warm water.  Then he groaned obscenely as he settled in. 

John left him there and went out to find the nearest pharmacy.  He was on high alert to any belated danger or unwanted attention as he picked up some over-the-counter pain pills and a Curry, both having eaten their fill of anything traditionally local. 

John was gone less than twenty minutes, but he was relieved to find Sherlock exactly where he had left him.  John’s mind had conjured up all manner of scenarios, from Sherlock falling asleep in the water and drowning, to the men returning to finish the job they had failed at earlier, to him slipping to his death on wet tiles, but none of those things had happened.  Sherlock simply opened one eye to take in John’s return, then shut it again as John shut the door behind him.

John put the curry in the fridge for later.  The complementary bottle of champagne was still in the door of the mini fridge.  He shrugged and took it out.  The pop of the cork made Sherlock jump.

“Sorry, I should have warned you,” John said as he sat on the floor beside Sherlock.  He handed him the bottle of champagne and two of the tablets that he had purchased.

“Mixing over the counter medication and booze, is this a good idea doctor?”

“Not particularly.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but he took a swig from the bottle.  John left for a moment, going to the bathroom for supplies, before settling back beside Sherlock and rolling his trousers up to the knee before lowering his feet into the water by Sherlock’s shoulder.  Sherlock handed him the bottle and he took a deep gulp.  The bubbles fizzed softly within his mouth and the crisp cool liquid made him realise how thirsty he was.  John returned the bottle to Sherlock and then took Sherlock’s arm.  It was loose in his hand; relaxed and trusting as he draped it over his thighs. Sherlock probably already knew the plan. He’d seen the tweezers in John’s hand.  He knew that the gravel would need to be removed from the grazes.

They were silent as John worked.  Picking out piece after piece of grit from Sherlock’s shallow wounds.  Persisting until he was satisfied that they were clean.  Then he had helped Sherlock from the cooling water and wrapped him in one of the fluffy bathrobes, before pointing him towards to table on the balcony.  John joined him a little later with another bottle of the champagne, courtesy of room service and the reheated curry.  This time he took the extra moment to pour it into champagne flutes.  

“To not getting shot,” John said, raising his glass as they ate there on the balcony in the balmy night air.  Sherlock touching his glass to John’s, relaxed and mellow now that the mix of paracetamol and alcohol and warm water had done their job. 

Later when John went in to refill their glasses, he passed Sherlock’s discarded trousers.  Neither of them had bothered to pick them up earlier.  John reached down for them, intending to fold them over the back of the chair.  They were filthy and ripped across at the knee, but John folded them anyway.  A clink and something landing just by his foot caught his attention.  He looked down.  It was the cameo. 

When he went back to the balcony with the bottle, he placed the jewellery by Sherlock’s elbow.  Sherlock picked it up.  Turned it over in his palm.  Ran his fingers over the rough surface.  He was still looking at it as he spoke. 

“You saved my life today,” Sherlock said, still looking down at the small cameo, then he looked up, meeting John’s eyes, “Thank you, John.”

Chapter Text

When Mary had invited John out for a kebab and a pint, he had nearly said no.  It was only the promise of a distraction rather than another lonely night at home that had him agree.  It wasn’t a date.  Three others from work were going too.  Until all the trains got cancelled and it ended up being just the two of them.  It was good.  Less depressing than another microwave dinner and the evening news.

It developed slowly from there.  A few Friday night pub meals became dinner reservations, which became a visit to the Tate Modern, then a matinee performance of something with too much dancing and not enough plot.  After a long while John started to wonder if life was kind of alright again.  Not the same kind of amazing, but a different sort of alright.  They had a good time together.  They spent nights in front of the telly, spent more time together than apart.  It was good.  They were content.  She even talked about wanting to have kids.  John didn’t want to make the same mistakes again.  He didn’t want to die wondering this time.  He even went so far as to browse jewellery stores on one of the rare days he was off work and Mary was rostered on.  He couldn’t pick a ring though.  He looked for hours, but nothing seemed quite right.  He dismissed the idea.  Perhaps they should try living together for a while first.  He got a key cut, had a burger, and went home with a blue scarf instead.

He limped in the door of his little town house that was mortgaged to the eyeballs.  That was when his world got turned on its head.  Sitting on the bottom of the stairs was Sherlock.  He was just as John remembered him.  The coat and the scarf and a crisp white shirt.  He was even wearing the damn hat.

John staggered.  The paper bag with the scarf hit the ground with a slap.  He turned way.  Planted his forearms against the door and buried his face tight against them.  He blinked his eyes tight shut.  Tight enough to see galaxies of light.  Three, four times he blinked, before he looked back over his shoulder.

“You’re not hallucinating, John,” Sherlock said calmly. 

Of course, Sherlock would know that John thought he was losing his mind.  He said it so plainly, in the same deep reverberating voice that John thought he had forgotten.  A deep rumbling tone that John had never heard replicated by anyone else.  He might have thought he had forgotten the voice, but he had not forgotten how beautiful it was.  Tears ran down his cheeks as he turned to face Sherlock.

John didn’t know what to say.  Didn’t even know where to begin.  His legs felt like jelly.  There was a lump in his throat he couldn’t swallow.  The whole thing was so surreal.  His mind rebelled against even the idea of Sherlock being here.  Alive.  It wasn’t possible.  He’d seen him die.  He’d held his limp wrist.  Felt for life and found none.

“How?”  That was all he could croak out and it sounded broken.

“Just a magic trick.”

John laughed, a choking hack.  He wiped his cheeks with both hands.  Shook his head.  Stepped forwards on legs that did not feel.  Just one step and then Sherlock was rising, struggling to his feet.  He was using the banister to pull himself awkwardly up.  His face twisted with pain.

John believed it then.  What had been in his mind, a perfect hallucination became real with a jolt that was like a punch in the guts.  There is no way his mind would create a version of Sherlock in so much pain.

Sherlock closed the gap between them.  Stooped slightly.  He was so close John cold feel the heat from his body.

“I’m so sorry, John.”

John broke down then.  Crying openly in gasping little sobs as Sherlock curled his arms around him.  John’s wet face against his neck.  Sherlock’s head bent against his own.  The coat wrapping around his limp shoulders.  Through his snotty nose he could smell Sherlock.  The smell of wool, and leather and coffee and a hint of tobacco.  And antiseptic.

“I need your help,” Sherlock said.

John was hugging back then.  “Anything.  Anything.  Whatever you need.”

“I need you to come with me to Baker Street.  Someone is trying to kill me; I can’t do this alone.”

Chapter Text

They had sat closely beside each other in the cab on the ride over to Baker Street.  As dusk fell over London, John held his wrist for the whole trip there feeling the steady thrum of Sherlock’s pulse and trying to rewrite his existence.

It was the house across the street that John was led into though.  Not into number 221.  Not up the stairs into 221B.  John was confused as Sherlock had led him upstairs.  They had stood in the darkness facing the window.  Looking across at the place where John’s life had been the best in his living memory.  As if it was close, but he still couldn’t reach it.  John’s gun pressed against his lower back.  Sherlock’s shoulder warm and alive against his own.  They watched and waited.  Sherlock told in whispers how he had faked his death, and why.  John had cried silently until he felt rung out.  How would he ever thank Sherlock for the sacrifices he had made for John, Greg, and Mrs Hudson?

Then Sherlock had told him why they were there.  They were waiting for someone that was after him.  Sherlock hadn’t known who exactly, but he had been aware that they were in London and that they had been waiting for his return. Somehow, they knew he was back.  John was the only one he trusted enough to help him defeat this one last enemy.  Sherlock expected them to go after him in Baker Street.  He had had Mrs Hudson moved out for a few days.  Something about black mould.  Mycroft had set it up; had one of his agents personally escort her out.  Sherlock told John that he expected that they would be able to see the person as they approached their old home.  Either that or see some evidence of them being inside; a shadow in the windows.  Either way they would see from their vantage point across the street. 

Eventually, their whispers had died out, both of them exhausted enough to fall into a comfortable silence.  Yet still the atmosphere had been charged with anticipation.  Stakeouts were always like that, a tight expectancy of what might come.  The absence of knowing whether it would be moments or hours, left them in constant pending tension.

There had been a sound below them.  Just a hint of a sound.  They both froze.  They had been still but now they were unmoving.  Slowly, John reached for his gun.  Sherlock pointed off to the left.  A gesture that John should move.  The position would allow him to see the person as they came into the room, but not allow them to see him.  John skuttled silently to the place Sherlock had indicated.  He looked back and watched as Sherlock had lowered himself down and sat with his back to the window.  He had his own gun drawn, but not raised.  Just hanging limp between his bent knees.  He looked tired and defeated.  John had to force himself to look away; to watch the opening to the room.

The person that appeared was obscured by the darkness.  Familiar somehow in a way that he couldn’t quite work out.  All he could tell was that they were small and slight.  Dressed all in black.  Ski mask hiding their face.  He wondered if it was Moriarty.  Wondered if anyone stayed dead.  Wondered if his dad would walk in next and be followed by his fallen brothers in arms.  He had nearly laughed at himself, his mind felt like the gears were slipping. 

The dark apparition in the doorway saw Sherlock in the dull light from the window.  From their side, a gun was raised. Aimed straight at Sherlock.  John had only had a moment to react.  They were probably wearing a vest.  He would have to aim high.  He altered his aim.  He pulled the trigger.  The boom of his weapon was deafening in the empty room.  A second crack followed it just a split second later.  Their gun.  John was still watching the silhouette fall.  He didn’t see where the second bullet went.  He couldn’t look.  He needed to make sure that they were dead first.  Gun levelled at the lump on the floor he approached.  Kicked the fallen gun away.  He nudged the body with his foot.  Checked for a pulse, reaching into the bloody mess of their shot-out throat.  Not trusting a radial pulse.  Not trusting that ever again.  No Pulse.  No movement.  No sound.  His ears were ringing from the gunshots; from the fear that their bullet might have found its target.  He ran to Sherlock.  His brain supplying all the horrors of losing him again, still not having said the things he wanted to.

“I’m fine, John.  The shot went high it’s in the wall,” Sherlock had muttered.  He was struggling to rise; needing John’s help to get up from the floor.  With his composure slipping for the first time Sherlock said frantically, “I need to know.  I need to see who it was.”

He had leant on John’s shoulder as they approached the body on the floor.  Sherlock dropped heavily to his knees as John moved to feel along the wall for a light switch.  He was back by Sherlock’s side when he had grabbed the ski mask.  John had aimed well.  Hitting the target right in the centre of their throat.  The head lolling at an angle, the neck clearly broken.  Sherlock pulled the mask off.  The head bounced in the floor once.  Blonde hair spilled into a halo around her head.

John had staggered back, leaving Sherlock kneeling by the body.  He could not believe his eyes.  It was Mary.  It was fucking Mary.  He had shot her.  He had shot her in the throat.  He killed her.  For the second time today, he turned away from someone who is on the wrong side of the vail.  John pressed his face against the nearest wall.  He could not breathe.  No air would go into his lungs.  He pounded his fist against the plaster, gasping like a fish out of water.

Then Sherlock was near him.  He was talking but he sounded far away.  John couldn’t hear his words.  A hand had landed heavily on his shoulder making him jump.  He still couldn’t breathe.  She had nearly killed him.  She would have taken Sherlock from him without hesitation.  She would have robbed him of the chance to say the things he needed to say.  He wanted to kill her all over again.  Sherlock’s arm was around him now.  His broad hand against John’s stomach.

“Breathe out,” Sherlock had commanded, pressing down with his palm, pulling John back against his chest.  And John had because he always did what Sherlock told him to, even when it sounded stupid.

There was room for air in his lungs after all.  He could breathe.  It was hitching and loud, but his diaphragm was under his command now.  He had turned his face into Sherlock’s chest, his eyes damp against the fine silky shirt.

“Who is she?” Sherlock had asked him.  “You know her.”

It had taken John long moments to figure out what to say.  “We were dating.  Had been for months.  I was going to ask her to move in.  We talked about kids.  I thought about proposing.  Jesus, Sherlock.  What the hell is this?”

“You were dating?  That’s clever.  Why is that clever?  She was close enough to know everything about your life.  This is why I had to keep it all from you.  She would have sensed it immediately if you hadn’t been completely taken in.  Your life would have been at risk.  She was trying to get to me.  She was a plant.  Moriarty set it all up before he killed himself.  You were part of it.”

“Why me?”

“Because you chose to be my friend.  I’m sorry John.  I’m so sorry.  She was working for them.  It wasn’t real.  What you had with her.  It wasn’t real.”

“Is anything real?” John asked weakly, “Is anything in my life real?”

“Not for the last two years.  But I am.  I’m here and I’m not going away.”

Footsteps were rumbling on the stairs.  John had pulled away.  His nerves frayed; he was bringing his gun up as the men entered the room.  They were led by Greg.  Sherlock pushed John’s arm higher, forcing the gun towards the roof. 

“I called them; I called Lestrade,” Sherlock muttered to John.

Greg was looking between them in abject confusion.  Then looking at the body on the floor.  John uses the distraction to plunge the gun deep into his jacket pocket.  It was so hot it burned his hip through the fabric. 

“It really is you.  I thought someone had cloned your phone,” Greg said to Sherlock, stalking towards him, his voice low.

“Oh, good you didn’t delete my number.  I thought you’d keep it.  Sentiment, but one can never know for sure.”

Greg had scoffed in disbelief, then turned to John.  “Did you know about this?” 

“Not until this afternoon,” John told him as he stepped around Sherlock to stand between them.  He sensed danger in Greg’s gruff words.  Greg had pushed him aside to get to Sherlock.  For a foolish moment, John thought Greg was going to hug Sherlock, but he shoved him hard up against the wall.  Sherlock let out a strangled yell.  Greg’s forearm was pinned against his throat.  Sherlock’s eyes wide. 

“You Bastard.  I nearly lost my job because you.  My wife left, really left.  I blamed myself for your death.  You selfish prick.  How the hell could you do this to us?”  Greg punctuated his final words by slamming Sherlock back against the wall harder. 

“Alright.  Get off him,” John said spinning Greg around.  “Get off him and leave him alone.  He had a lot of reasons for what he did.” 

Sherlock slumped heavily to the floor.  Silent.  Eyes downcast.  Greg and John stared at one another for a long moment.  A standoff.  When Sherlock spoke, his voice sounded rough.  “I’m sorry, Lestrade.  I had no choice.”

One of Greg’s men had stepped up to them and had taken Greg by the shoulders.  They told him to back away.  He had growled at them, shook free of their grasp, but ultimately listened, storming down the stairs.  John was on his knees beside Sherlock in a second.  “Are you hurt?” 

“No more that I was before.”

“Let’s get you home.  Is Baker Street safe now?”

“I suspect so.”

“Alright, up you get then.” 

John had taken one last look at Mary as they passed.  His eyes lingered on her wide-open empty eyes.  He barely registers the officer that tells him they need to make a statement.  Sherlock bluntly told them that they would, tomorrow.  His voice had left no opportunity for them to question this.

John wasn’t sure who was supporting who as they crossed the street.  Sherlock had a key to the front door.  John wondered if he held onto it for the whole two years.  He wondered if he had taken it out of his pocket from time to time and thought of home.  John wondered if Sherlock had thought of him.

Sherlock paused at the bottom of the steps.  He let John close the door behind them. 

“I need to tell you something,” John announced, not willing to wait a second longer.  His nerves were frayed, his head was a jumble.  He was more confused than he had ever been, but also never more certain.  “I’m not sure how you will take this, but I have to say it.  I have to say it right now.  Anything you want to say afterwards is fine and I’ll leave if you want me to.”

“Just say it John, I’m very tired.”

“Okay, um, right,” John had paused, then spoken in a flurry, “I have feelings for you that are not entirely ordinary for someone to have about their friend, or their flatmate.” 

“Yeah, John, I know that.”  Sherlock didn’t seem worried, just a bit bemused.  His face lightening for the first time in over two years.

“Seriously?”  John smiled, eyes squinting. 

“Yep, how thick do you think I am?”

John had laughed then.  A proper hearty laugh.  Then he pulled Sherlock away from the wall he was leaning on and with a questioning glance asked if he could kiss him.

Sherlock nodded once, almost imperceptibly.  It was enough for him.  John had kissed him with the passion of years of waiting and Sherlock gave back as well as he could.