Archive of Our Own ^beta

Sherlock was off by one sip, but spot on with two bites. Two small bites.

He had sensed the change, the reestablished distancing between them, in the cab. It was as if that precious moment had not occurred, as if John had not poured out his grief in Sherlock's arms, as if they hadn't— He was back to the John he had become after Mary's death. Not the hate-filled one, not the one who blamed Sherlock for everything bad that had ever occurred in his life. No, this was the reluctantly accepting one who had frowned down in horror at Sherlock jittering in the boot of Mrs Hudson's car, who had even more reluctantly assisted him in his investigation of Culverton Smith. The one who, for the life of him, Sherlock could no longer read—except for the very clear, Here and no further.

Was it because he had spoken to Mary as they were leaving the flat to meet Molly for cake? Or was it because of what had happened between them before that?

"Look," John was saying, "happy birthday, Sherlock. But I really have to—"

"Rosie."

John met his eyes and nodded gratefully. "Rosie." Pushing his chair away from the table, he fished his wallet out of his pocket. Molly immediately scrambled for her purse. "No." He waved a hand as he dropped several notes between their plates. "My treat."

"John, I could—" Molly began, her gaze darting between Sherlock and John.

"It's all right," Sherlock interrupted. "Thank you, John, for the cake. And the company." He glanced across at Molly, who was looking a little stricken.

"Yeah," Molly said. "This was a great idea."

"You're welcome, both of you." John rapped his knuckles on the table. "Tomorrow, Sherlock."

"Six to ten." Sherlock lowered his eyes, appalled at the unhappy cadence of his heart, the press of emotion rising so near the surface. Detox was hell. He heard Molly adding her thanks again, the quick exchange regarding the disposition of John's leftover cake, the click of John's brogues as he stepped around the table—and then startled at the unexpected weight of John's hand on his shoulder.

Assured of Sherlock's attention, John tightened his grip and gave him a very small, cautious shake. He held eye contact for a surprisingly long time. "Tomorrow, yeah?"

Exhaling roughly, Sherlock said, "Yeah." But John was already several steps away when Sherlock added, "Give Rosie a hug for me."

John cast a perfunctory smile over his shoulder. "Will do." He went through the door and disappeared into the foot traffic almost instantly.

"Sherlock." He blinked, brought back to his immediate surroundings by Molly's voice. Her head was turned on side, her eyes warm and full of compassion. "Do you want to go?"

"You haven't finished."

"I'll have it later."

Sherlock raised a rueful brow and gestured with his chin at the three plates, all of which were scarcely touched. "I hope you're hungry."

"Cake like this is not to be wasted."

Their server, undoubtedly alerted by John's departure, appeared at their table. "Shall I bring takeaway boxes?" Before Sherlock could voice his objection, Molly bobbed her head, her ponytail jerking emphatically. "Yes, please!" The server gave her an approving grin. "I'll be right back."

"You're hurting, aren't you?" Molly opened her shoulder bag and unzipped an inside pocket.

For an instant, Sherlock didn't know how to reply. Molly sometimes had the ability to cut right through his defenses, piercing the weakened armor that guarded his emotions. But she was apparently referring to corporeal pain as she handed him a single tablet of paracetamol. "You still have some coffee?" She pointed at his mug. "It works better with caffeine."

Taken by another surge of emotion, all too readily identifiable as gratitude and, possibly, affection, Sherlock pinched the tablet between clumsy fingers, loathing this feeling of reduced efficiency. Some might call it vulnerability. Detox was worse than hell. Molly, raking him with a clinical once-over, nudged the mug towards him. "Let's get you home."

"With that manner, it's no wonder your patients are so obliging."

Before she could retort, their server returned with takeaway containers. "Were the flavors not to your liking?" She pocketed John's money and stood back, her hands in her apron pockets.

"Oh, no. Everything's lovely." Molly smiled reassuringly as she began to ease the pieces of cake off plates and into boxes. "Just a little soon for this one to be out. Even if it is his birthday."

The server's entire mien transformed. "Your birthday! You should have said."

"No singing." The coffee inside Sherlock's mug heaved like waves on the ocean as he roughly set the cheap porcelain down on the table.

"No singing," the server agreed affably. "But there is free cake."

"I really don't think we need more—"

"Lemon," Molly said decisively. "Lemon, please?"

"Of course." The server whispered loudly to Sherlock, "Happy birthday."

He fashioned his face into a facsimile of a smile, though Molly rolled her eyes at sight of it. It was possible that his lips were trapped in the grimace he was feeling rather than the pleasant aspect he was attempting to project. The effort did not appear to disturb the server either way. As soon as she went off in the direction of the cake display case, Sherlock glared at Molly. "Nobody else needs to know."

Molly's eyes danced with impishness. "I'll think about it." She finished boxing their servings and meticulously arranged them in the provided bag before turning to their empty plates, which she collected and stacked and set out of the way. Sherlock was wearied just watching her. Their server returned with one more box, the contents of which she briefly displayed to Molly for her acceptance, before folding the lid into place.

"That looks yummy!" Molly's enthusiasm was contagious: The server beamed back at her. With a parting exhortation to come again, she scooped up their empty plates, cups, and used serviettes, and left them alone.

Sherlock's muscles had stiffened up. He stood with slow care, much of his energy going towards the concealment of his discomfort. But Molly was at his side in an instant, chattering inanities which he would not have paid attention to in any case, but which now spurred him to movement simply in the hope of putting an end to her unwanted solicitude. It was a relief when a cab swung up to the curb only seconds after Molly raised her arm. Getting inside, despite the spacious opening provided by the wide-swung door, raised further protests from Sherlock's ribs and head. He gritted his teeth, folded himself as much as his resentful body would allow, and climbed inside. Molly scooted in opposite him and, squeezing his knee, gave the cabbie their direction.

Sherlock turned towards the window and closed his eyes, the glass soothingly cool beneath his temple. London held none of its usual magic for him as they stuttered and stopped, grey buildings, grey skies, grey people passing by in their dull sameness. Molly must have heard his sigh, as she touched his leg again, and murmured something about their being home soon. He did not bother to tell her that Baker Street had stopped being home on the day that he had fallen from the roof of Bart's, even though it was where he lived.

The painkiller was beginning to do its job when they arrived at 221B, which made the ascent of the stairs a little less grueling than it might have been. All the same, Sherlock sank into his chair as if it had welcoming arms, not even bothering to remove his coat and hat first.

Molly pottered about, putting the slices of cake into the fridge, emitting a squeal, and then muttering under her breath when she recognized the provenance of the material stewing in a glass container inside the salad drawer. Before she could even ask, he shouted, "Experiment!" After which, he consciously steadied his breathing in order to quiet the miserable throbbing of his ribs. He assumed that his pained expression spared him a scolding. Not that she could complain, really; after all, the specimens had come from her, so she could hardly accuse him of improper acquisition of biological material.

She came back into the sitting room and insisted that he shed his coat, hat, and scarf. And then, because she obviously was making good on some long-held but unvoiced grudge, she untied the laces of his shoes, so that she could free his feet, an oddly personal task that, appallingly, brought a blush to Sherlock's cheeks. He continued to track her movements as she cleared surfaces, tended to the clutter in the sink, and eventually set the kettle to boiling. He could tell that she was trying to be unobtrusive, as inoffensive as the mouse he sometimes, still, thought her. But when she at last placed a cup of tea on his side table, accompanied by his replated slice of cake, he was beyond worn out, exhaustion by proxy.

It was regret, mainly, that weighed on him, now, rather than anything physical. His actions had been unthinking, stupidly unthinking, and had unquestionably damaged his ailing friendship with John before it had had the slightest chance of healing. There had been a moment when, with John weeping in his arms, hope had soared within him. It ought to have been enough. But Sherlock had not been able to resist—

Molly tapped his forearm. "Eat a bit, Sherlock. You can have another tablet when there's something more in your stomach."

Sherlock sighed. "Go home, Molly Hooper." Despite the bluntness of his words, he spoke gently. "Your cat is in greater need of you than I am."

She held up the pill. "Sorry, no." A jerk of the head, with the added emphasis of the bounding ponytail, indicated the slice of cake near his hand. Scowling mightily, Sherlock stabbed the tines of the fork into the dessert and shoved it into his mouth. Infuriatingly, Molly grinned at him and set the tablet on the table next to his tea.

"This is not necessary," Sherlock stated coldly. "I won't be using again. It was a mistake, which I have acknowledged. My symptoms—" (read cravings, he thought to himself) "—are manageable."

Molly, settled into John's chair with her legs crossed tailor fashion, socked feet curled under her thighs, swallowed her own bite before answering. "Two more days … well, one, if you count this one. John is going to review your situation tomorrow evening during his shift."

"If he bothers to come back." Sherlock's voice was dark and low and not a little wounded. He was sulking; he didn't even try to hide it.

Molly drank from her cup, gazing at him with soft eyes. "He had to leave, Sherlock. Rosie's minder had a family thing."

"Of course she did." He gouged out another piece of cake and ate it. It really was very good, and the sugar content was in the red zone. For a few blessed moments of relative silence, he could imagine, with his eyes closed, that he was alone.

"Sherlock."

He made a low, snarling sound, hoping that it and his forbidding expression would put her off, as it usually did.

But she, too, was frowning. "Why did he hurt you?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "I don't know what—"

"Greg told me."

"Greg. Oh, Greg! You and Greg now, is it?"

Molly's cheeks flamed. "Don't deflect."

"Deflect? Merely observing. The tone of your voice, the color in your cheeks. Still rather new, then."

"Sherlock—"

"Though as potential partners go, you could do far worse. Although he is a trifle old for—"

"You could have lost the use of that eye! Two of your ribs were—"

Sherlock felt his jaw tighten, his features harden. "Have the two of you set a date? Be sure to leave my name off—"

"He could have killed you!" Molly shouted.

A heavy silence descended on the room. "If John Watson wanted me dead," Sherlock said at last, in his coldest, most distant voice, "I would be dead … and not trapped here having to listen to you prattle on about things that do not concern you."

Molly drew herself up. The hands holding her plate were trembling but she met his anger with raised chin. "The only reason he isn't in custody is Rosie."

Sherlock was the first to look away. He swallowed hard, breathed out, breathed in. "It wasn't his fault, Molly. If anything, it was mine. Just part of my—"

"You sound like a battered housewife."

He set his fork on the side of the plate, moved the plate onto the side table. With an especially venomous sneer, he bit back, "Battered housewife, am I? What would you know about being a—?"

"I've seen enough of them on my table." Molly's eyes were snapping, her mouth was a hard line, a pulse beat fast in her throat. "Did you think that letting him beat you would bring him back?"

For an instant, a shocking instant for all of that, Sherlock was at a loss for words. When he found himself capable again, he said, with a rare admiring grin, "When did you become cruel, Molly Hooper?"

Her eyes began to shine, but she didn't turn away. "And when did you become stupid, Sherlock Holmes?"

Surprising them both, Sherlock quietly laughed, though the sound of it was rough, rueful. Molly's expression didn't change; she continued to study him with equal parts wariness and anger. He shrugged. "Fact. I provoked him. I was, apparently, threatening people with a scalpel. Not the most effective weapon, but I was improvising. Don't do drugs, Molly. Not to excess. Very, very bad for proper mentation."

"He put you in hospital."

"And Greg, your Greg, told you why. Molly." He spoke her name as if she was defying reason. She winced. "You ran those tests, you examined me. I was heading for a crash well before John ever put up a fist."

She looked down at her piece of cake, but her expression remained troubled. "No one deserves to be hurt by a loved one." The sympathy, the sadness, the bone-deep understanding were almost unbearable.

He wanted to argue that sometimes apologies were insufficient, that the measure of hurt suffered must demand a reciprocal, greater, punishing hurt. But he also knew that neither he nor John had come away from Culverton Smith's favorite room happier or, by any measure, saner. "No, indeed," he agreed, and then made a show of picking up his plate again. He cut into the moist crumb of the cake, ensuring that the fork was packed mostly with icing.

For one mad moment he toyed with the idea of confiding in her, of telling her about holding John in his arms, of how all of the bitterness and rage had gone out of him, how he had allowed Sherlock not only to hold him but to comfort him. She would approve of that, he thought. But then he would have to confess what else he had done and, how, quite probably, he had destroyed everything between them. Instead, he shoved all of that back into the shadows of his mind, and announced with deliberate casualness, "My tea has gone cold."

Shaking her head wryly, Molly set her plate aside. Reaching out, she wiggled her fingers for Sherlock's mug, while gathering up her own neglected cup with her other hand. "I'll make fresh later. The microwave will have to do for now."

He considered objecting, would have done had it been John … John from before. But he resisted the impulse and passed his mug to her. "Thank you, Molly." He sat for a moment, contemplating his plate without actually seeing it, his thoughts still, irrevocably, on John, and was a little startled when, seemingly only seconds later, Molly returned with his steaming mug. He gestured his thanks with a nod, which she dismissed with a quick shrug.

"So—" he drawled, and Molly alerted at that speculative intonation. " 'Greg?' "

Brow furrowed, Molly countered, "Don't you have an experiment to get on with?"

At midnight, he roused to the scrape of footsteps on the landing, declaring the hour. A few moments went by while hushed voices exchanged pleasantries. And then there were whispers and kisses, clearly audible in Sherlock's bedroom. The walls here were notoriously thin, but this, he thought, was beyond excruciating. Molly made an unfortunate noise, one that could only be described as a cross between a snort and a very happy giggle.

And then there were footsteps. He pictured Molly's light passage down the staircase, in contrast with Lestrade's heavier tread crossing the threshold from the landing into the sitting room. Carelessly pushing aside the chemistry journal he had been reading, Sherlock shuffled off the bed and into his slippers. He arrived in the sitting room just as the refrigerator door closed.

Lestrade, grey with fatigue but looking rather pleased with himself, silently hailed him, fork and travel mug clutched in one hand, the open box of cake that Molly had gotten for him in the other, his cheeks bulging. He went to John's chair and lowered himself into it with a gusty sigh, his eyes falling to half mast as the worn cushions surrounded him.

"Lemon, I presume," Sherlock intoned by way of greeting. "Thoughtful of Molly, wasn't it?"

Lestrade peered up at him as he raised the travel mug to his lips. "Yeah. It's delicious." He jabbed a finger in the direction of Sherlock's side table.

Sherlock had already noticed the large paper cup he was pointing at, alerted by his sense of smell. "Hot chocolate?"

"From John." Lestrade dug into another forkful of cake. "Better for you than coffee or tea at this time of night … or morning. He knew you'd be awake."

Eyeing him sharply, Sherlock eased himself into his chair. He sniffed at the tiny opening in the lid. The drink came from an establishment not known to him, but was of high quality, redolent and rich, made not just with cocoa powder, milk, and cream but also melted chocolate, at least seventy percent, possibly a little higher, vanilla and a dash of salt. He took a sip and held it in his mouth, according it another thorough inspection but this time with his taste buds, noting the blending and balance of flavors, admiring the finish of rich chocolate and the hint of salt on the back of his tongue. Lestrade must have come straight from the cafe where they had met: the cocoa was at the perfect temperature. "You saw John?"

"Cafe down the road from his flat."

"And Rosie?"

Lestrade swirled his mug prior to lifting it to his lips. It contained coffee, a dark brew, intense with flavor and caffeine. It called to Sherlock, even though the hot chocolate was exceptionally good. "He has a thing with his neighbor." He wielded his fork again. Sherlock considered stabbing him with it if he didn't speed up his narration. "The guy lives alone, comes over when John needs to step out for a few minutes. Some kind of night owl; writer or something. He's okay; I vetted him."

Sherlock arched his brows meaningfully. "You just happened to be in the neighborhood?"

"Case." Lestrade filled his mouth with more cake and closed his eyes altogether. The sockets were cadaverous, a match for the deep grooves around his mouth and on his forehead, all signs of extreme weariness. He should be home, Sherlock thought, in his own bed, rather than doing sentry duty from John's chair.

Sherlock took another sip of his cocoa. From John. Unexpected. "Not a case," he stated shrewdly. "You were comparing notes. About me."

Lestrade considered him from beneath heavy eyelids. "We're all reporting to him."

Pursing his lips in a theatrical moue, though his eyes sparked with outrage, Sherlock minced, "I feel so seen."

Sputtering, Lestrade dragged himself up, almost upsetting his mug. "God, Sherlock." Rasping a laugh, he swept a hand over his jacket and dangling tie, making sure he had not spilled any coffee on himself.

According Lestrade a moment to collect himself, Sherlock crossed his legs and settled in. "Full marks for a fairly decent attempt at misdirection, Greg. But let's get back to what's important. Molly?"

Lestrade's mouth stretched into a toothy grin. "Really? You're going to play the protective older brother?"

"Who better?"

"Suppose I can't really argue with that." Lestrade melted back into the worn cushions. He raised his head, just a little, his expression open, unguarded. "She's the best thing to ever happen to me. And it's none of your business."

Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock examined the other man until he began to shift uneasily. "I won't give my blessing until you answer one very important question."

"As if your blessing matters in the least," Lestrade blustered. Unfortunately for him, he seemed to know the truth of it, and let out a long-suffering groan. Dark eyes glinting, he prodded, "Go on. Ask your very important question."

With some ceremony, dragging the moment out, Sherlock balanced his cup within the circle of his long fingers. Dropping his voice into its lowest range, he demanded, "How do you really feel about cats?"

Lestrade burst out laughing again. "You tosspot."

Allowing himself a tiny smile, Sherlock said, "Molly can look after herself. But if you ever—"

"I won't!" With a disbelieving shake of the head, Lestrade repeated, "I won't. I wouldn't. She's the sweetest and smartest woman I've ever met. And she likes me. Though God only knows why."

Sherlock tsked. "A match made in death." He raised a hand at Lestrade's offended scowl. "I mean that in the best way, of course."

"Of course you do." Lestrade briefly took refuge in his coffee. "Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Maybe I'm just waiting for you to fall asleep so I can make my escape."

"You're not actually being held against your will. In fact, the way I remember it, you agreed."

"To round-the-clock minders? I must have been out of my mind. Oh, wait—I was."

"Which is why you have round-the-clock minders. Which you agreed to." Lestrade bent over and opened the briefcase next to the chair, his hand surfacing a moment later holding a half dozen case folders. "Almost forgot. Something to distract your twisty brain while you get your act together."

If he had been able to move quickly without lighting up his ribs, Sherlock would have snatched the folders from Lestrade's hand. As it was, he was grateful when Lestrade did most of the work of meeting Sherlock's outstretched arm so he was not forced to get up. "How old?"

"Varies. Nothing over five years."

Sherlock immediately began to flip through the files, cataloging them as he went: murder, murder, kidnapping, rape/murder, murder, theft, and then set to organizing them by level of complexity and degree of challenge, hardest to easiest.

He was barely listening when Lestrade murmured, "You need to stick with it this time, Sherlock. You can't just—"

Sherlock brought the folders up in front of him, like a shield, effectively bringing an end to Lestrade's sermon before it could really get going. It was galling to hear those words yet again, especially when he had gone down that road only with the best of intentions. "You need not worry about me." Keeping his expression neutral, he wordlessly invited Lestrade to perceive his sincerity, his commitment. Before John, this man had been his only friend, or as much a friend as he would allow himself. He was well aware that he did not deserve his kindness, nor his support after almost a decade of interceding on his behalf. "My … actions of late were regrettable. Painful to everyone. That will not happen again."

"I really hope you mean that." Lestrade lowered his haggard gaze to the fork in his hand. "You came awfully close this time. Worse, you nearly took John down with you."

An unpleasant combination of shame and embarrassment burned through him at the thought of the repercussions that might have faced John, and how they might have affected his role as a parent, as a doctor. "It was good of you not to charge him."

Lestrade's lips thinned. "I'm not sure that's true. That temper of his—"

"It was my fault." There was no need for Lestrade to complete that sentence; they both understood John well enough. "You know that John isn't naturally given to violence. Not without good reason."

"And you were that reason? According to Molly, you think you deserved it."

Closing his eyes, Sherlock could feel his skin tighten. He wanted to snap, to bite. It took him a moment, but he managed to reply coolly, "Telling tales out of school?"

"Keeping each other informed," Lestrade growled. "In order for us to get you through this, we have to talk among ourselves; make sure we're on the same page. You ought to be enjoying the attention. Prima donna."

The last week and a bit had been awful, fighting the pain, craving a high, longing for relief. But someone had been with him at all times, a sort of DIY rehab program for the housebound. Lestrade was right: Sherlock usually fed on attention, and, true, there was always someone in attendance, sometimes even a doctor or a nurse. But the important one, the only person he had really wanted to see, had not been there; at least, not at first. When he had asked after him, he had been told that John was at work, or caring for Rosie, or simply couldn't make it. Sherlock suspected he would never see him again. After all, John had already said his goodbyes at the hospital when he left his cane behind, the cane Sherlock had modified for that very eventuality. So his appearance on the third afternoon had come as a gratifying surprise—as had learning that John was the ringleader of their little group and that everyone reported to him.

"I am not a battered housewife. And John is not my abusive husband." This pronouncement seemed to take Lestrade aback. Sherlock smiled, just a little, just enough to cut through the tension, acknowledging the absurdity of the notion.

Lestrade laughed. "Yeah. Says you." He shook his head. "You always were the best—and the worst—thing for each other."

"That … won't be a problem for John anymore." Sherlock was proud of his delivery: straightforward, collected, no hint of the rawness that lay beneath it.

Pushing himself upright, Lestrade countered, "Don't be too certain. I think he's come to some new conclusions about himself. About you."

Sherlock's heart rate kicked up a notch. "Anything in particular?"

Lestrade drained his mug and wiped his mouth. "You'll have to get that from him. He didn't explain."

"Ah." Was it possible that he and John might remain friends, even after what Sherlock had done, after yesterday? He sat a little taller, aware of the pull of his ribs, of the lingering pain behind his eyes. "One last thing, Detective Inspector."

Caught mid-stretch, Lestrade regarded him with a flicker of alarm. "We don't have to hug, do we?"

Sherlock forced a smile. "Once was enough. No. But there is something you can help me with." As he spoke, he pushed himself to his feet and withdrew the plastic bag from his dressing gown pocket with his free hand. It was filled with a suite of drug paraphernalia, including packets of matte and glistening white powder, some marked with H's, others with C's. "Must've been left behind by the previous tenant. Wouldn't want to be charged for possession of something that doesn't belong to me."

Taking it from him with a snap of the hand, Lestrade appeared uncertain whether to shout or to follow through with that hug, maybe both. Finally, he just let his shoulders roll forward and his head drop onto his chest. "Yeah, I'll take care of it." Using a thumb to spread the contents so that everything was visible beneath the plastic, he audibly ground his teeth. "Tell me this is—"

"All of it. The last of it. Whatever you were going to ask. Yes."

He raised his head and stared at Sherlock for a long moment, his mouth working, though no words were forthcoming, as if he couldn't decide exactly what needed to be said. Finally, he bent over and shoved the packet into his case and zipped it shut. "Consider it done." His voice was gruff, more gravelly than usual. "Ah, hell." He stood up, piling the mug and cake box onto the side table. Sherlock stood stock-still as he was grabbed and held—but loosely, his injuries not forgotten.

Sherlock said nothing, inescapably comparing this hug with the one he had shared with John the evening before. He was not fond of being closely held, of people's breath joining his own inhalations, of their body odors invading his senses. But there had been none of those objections when he had comforted John. In fact, he had yearned for so much more, for so long, that that brief contact had already earned its own room in John's wing of Sherlock's mind palace. This, now, with Lestrade, while not generally something he would have sought out, was unexpectedly acceptable, in an entirely different way. He would never tell this man he loved him; he wasn't sure that was actually the name for the emotion he felt for him. But Lestrade mattered, and when he gently pushed Sherlock away, apparently embarrassed by this display of caring, Sherlock noticed the loss.

He stuck the folders under his arm and collected his paper-cup cocoa. Turning toward the hallway, Sherlock said, "You should rest, Detective. I promise not to disturb you."

Amid a swirl of silk, Sherlock exited the room before Lestrade could say anything. With the door of his bedroom closed behind him, he went to the bed and shoved pillows against the headboard, before gingerly arranging himself upon them. He could hear the other man moving about, the damnably thin walls blocking only the most modest of noises. There followed the gurgle of the toilet, the running of taps, the sucking sound as the refrigerator door opened, the aria of a yawn. Sherlock refocused his thoughts and began to flick through each folder. Before long, the flat fell quiet, only the faint burr of Lestrade's snoring disturbing the night.

During his two-year exile, Sherlock had become habituated to a solitary existence and, upon returning to London, had told himself that it was a positive thing that John no longer shared the flat. There had been too many nights when he had awakened reaching for a weapon or smothering his own cries lest he be found out. Since John had orchestrated his recovery with round-the-clock nannies, it had been necessary to adapt yet again to others occupying his space.

It had been no easier for them than him, these people who cared enough about his well being to answer John's call to arms, especially in those first manic days when Sherlock could scarcely light for more than a moment before his aimlessly misfiring nerve endings sent him skittering about again; or when he crashed on the sofa, not to be roused for any reason. But they had all volunteered their time and help because each one considered him a friend. To that end they had attempted to feed him—and occasionally succeeded; served him innumerable cups of tea; cleaned up after him when he was at his lowest moments; and, most importantly, they had kept him from going mad with boredom.

Friends. Somehow he had acquired a number of them, although he had never acknowledged but one. It was a novel concept, and he was still adjusting to the reality of it. Of course, none of them would ever govern his feelings as John did, nor would the loss of any one of them cause him to go cold inside—not like he had that day at the morgue.

But it seemed, however unlikely, that perhaps John still cared. Sherlock contemplated the almost empty cup of cocoa waiting on the bedside table and sheltered the tiny flame of hope deep within himself.

An hour before dawn there came another changing of the guard. When Sherlock heard the voice of his new warden, his brows shot up towards his hairline, and he scrambled off the bed, folders and papers scattering across the duvet. He brought himself to a rocking stop before he could continue into the sitting room. Calming himself with a deep breath that made his ribs creak, he collected the folders, ensured that the papers were accurately sorted, and wiped all expression from his face. Only then did he extend a hand to the door handle.

Lestrade and Sally Donovan faced each other across the short distance between John and Sherlock's chairs. Donovan glanced up as Sherlock advanced into the room. Her dark eyes raked over the rust-colored dressing gown and his shirt and trousers, the latter of which Sherlock belatedly remembered must be uncharacteristically wrinkled. His outfit seemed to give rise to mirth.

A scathing comment was poised on the tip of Sherlock's tongue, but Lestrade anticipated him. He surged out of the chair with renewed vigor—he had obviously slept solidly through the night. "'Morning, Sherlock."

"Where's Stamford? I don't recall seeing Donovan's name on the list." He flicked his fingers in the direction of the sheet of paper, the one John had drawn up, stuck to the refrigerator by a magnet.

"Filling in," Donovan replied sourly.

"Got a text from Mike a bit ago. His eldest is in delivery. Sally agreed to take his shift."

Turning his glare on Lestrade, Sherlock snapped, "You know this isn't necessary."

"Until John says otherwise," Lestrade shot back, but without heat, "the schedule stands."

All too aware that this was a battle that he would not win without creating a frightful and unpleasant scene, Sherlock thrust the folders against Lestrade's chest. "Three solved. The fourth, will require your accessing a database that will confirm my findings; you'll know which one when you read my notes. I still have the last two, one of which—though I hate to say it—will benefit from Mycroft's involvement. It'll be in the notes. Do I pass?"

Lestrade nodded, grinning smugly. "Full marks. Although I'll expect everything by the end of the day." He winked—winked!—at Sherlock as he dragged on his jacket.

Sighing with disgust, Sherlock went into the kitchen, taking Lestrade's travel mug with him, and put the kettle on to boil. Lestrade's empty cake box was in the bin, his cleaned fork on the drainboard. "You'll have it by noon."

"No doubt," Donovan said silkily. "But only because he gives you the easy ones."

"Behave, both of you." Lestrade's admonition was snappish, automatic, the forefront of his mind clearly on the cold case files in his hands. He was murmuring to himself, all weariness seemingly gone, when Sherlock returned with two cups and Lestrade's refilled travel mug. "Oh, hey, thanks."

Despite a niggling sense of displacement, Sherlock set one each on the small side tables, before gravitating to the space between the windows, early, grey light streaming in through the nets on either side. "I suppose," he said with spartan politeness, "that congratulations are in order … Detective Inspector Donovan."

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a pregnant look, amused on Lestrade's side, rather peeved on Donovan's. She reached around to wrench her bag off the back of John's chair. After a short, badger-like spell of rooting, she produced a ten-pound note which she dangled in front of Lestrade.

Gleefully jerking it from her fingers, Lestrade chortled, "Told you it wouldn't take him ten minutes."

"How did you know?" The peevishness had come to the fore, but Sherlock surprised himself, swallowing the desire to gloat. Instead, he composed his features into a mask of impassivity. "New briefcase, fashionable among the upper echelons in the Met; very career-forward. New shoes, previously beyond your means; meant to convey professionalism and confidence. New jacket, off the rack but of fine quality and tailored to suit you. And I overheard your former boss—" He blocked her incipient objection with an upraised hand. "—some time ago talking about your examination preparations." Quite some time ago, Sherlock realized. It had been before Mary's death, and that had occurred months ago. "Only that."

"Not former, yet." The hard set of Donovan's face gave way to a tetchy half-smile as she returned her bag to the chairback.

"Soon enough," Lestrade said consolingly. "This is good work, Sherlock." He displayed the folders in one hand before finding space to store them in his briefcase. "Especially the boy. Suspicion had fallen on his aunt, but this exonerates her."

"Too bad the Met couldn't have worked that out three years ago."

Lestrade pulled a face. "Wasn't my case, and you weren't here three years ago, remember? But her daughter will be pleased."

"You'll tell her?"

"Well, not me personally." With a cheeky grin, he turned his head towards Donovan. "Seems the sort of thing a new detective inspector should tackle."

Donovan glowered at him. "Don't you have somewhere else to be?"

Lestrade laughed out loud. "That I do." He stretched and moaned exaggeratedly. "Thank God, that's probably the last time I'll have to sleep on your sofa." He started for the kitchen, juggling overcoat and briefcase in one hand while slurping out of the mug gripped in the other.

"You'll want to take care not to alienate Ms Hooper, then."

"Sherlock!"

"Hooper?" Donovan's face lit up. "Molly Hooper? Morgue Molly Hooper?"

Teeth bared, Lestrade slammed the mug onto the kitchen worktop. Sherlock's keen hearing informed him that the high-impact plastic was still intact, though it might now be chipped. All apology, he murmured, "Forget I said anything."

"You—" Somehow finding sibilants in a word that had none, Lestrade added more hot water to his mug and screwed the lid back on with immoderate force.

"That Molly Hooper." Donovan appeared to be trying very hard not to break into a huge grin. It made her look a little deranged. "Good on you, boss," she said brightly.

Finger pointing straight at her, Lestrade warned, "You can say whatever you like about me, but leave her out of it." And to Sherlock he muttered darkly, "Thanks, mate." A few seconds later, the door slammed behind him, so hard it rattled in its frame.

For some reason Lestrade's reaction left Sherlock inordinately pleased. During their hours together, Molly had divulged little about their nascent relationship, despite his expert, and very subtle, interrogation. In between his efforts to extract information, he had attempted to absorb the findings in a recent paper on forensic genetics; not his field, but a useful addition to his database. The piece was intelligently and accessibly written, but thoughts of the two of them had kept intruding, and he had found himself observing Molly instead. Used to Sherlock's antics, she had easily dismissed him in favor of concentrating on the rough-draft printouts of transcriptions that she was reviewing for accuracy, which, she hold told him, needed to be posted the next day.

It was true that Molly was a number of years younger than Lestrade. But it was also true that he was loyal to a fault, she was the same, and both were openhearted and good, but with a somewhat benignly malleable morality. There would be little conflict stemming from their jobs or their schedules: both worked unpredictable hours, yet both loved what they did and were happier for it.

At one point in his silent study, she had looked up and stared witheringly at him. Sherlock had merely sat unrepentant and patiently awaited the criticism that was sure to follow. Instead, she had only complained wryly, "I can almost feel your thoughts leaving tiny footprints on my brain. Whatever you have to say, out with it."

Rather to his own amazement, Sherlock had replied sincerely, "I believe this is the moment when I extend my best wishes. To both of you."

He had always had the ability to render Molly speechless, but this was the first time he had done so unintentionally. Her mouth had fallen open, though obviously no words were going to spill forth. And then, to his horror, tears had sprung into her eyes, those warm brown eyes, and yet she had laughed as only Molly laughed, a sort of unholy blend of guffawing mixed with giggles. Painfully ransacking his mind for reasons he should apologize, Sherlock had been immensely relieved when, still laughing, she had said, "Thank you, Sherlock." And then she had unmistakably ended the conversation by making a show of returning to her work and solidly ignoring him for the rest of her shift.

When Sherlock had thought it was going to be Stamford, he had intended to make a brief, civil appearance, after which he would retire to his bedroom. But there was no reason to do that with Donovan, who would gladly snub him for the entirety of her secondment. And if it rankled to be in his company, so much the better. No reason he should suffer alone.

He gathered his laptop, his tea, now rapidly cooling, and Lestrade's file, and took them to his chair—unfortunately still a little warm from the DI's recent visit—and sank into it amidst the whisper of silk subsiding around him.

Donovan, as he had expected, pretended he was not there.

An hour passed in strangely comfortable silence—save for an intermittent, low level burbling that came and went, barely loud enough to be heard, but to Sherlock's keen hearing as discernible as the rumble of a train passing as one neared the platform. It sometimes failed to repeat for several minutes at a time, long enough for Sherlock to hope that it would not, after all, necessitate his drawing attention to it. In the meanwhile, he concluded his study of the cold case and, slapping the folder shut, rose from his chair.

Startled, Donovan raised her head, her dark eyes cautious. Taking a moment to ease the twinging in his ribs, he set the folder onto the table next to her. Pointing at the sticky note attached to it, he said, "You can access this information remotely, yes?"

She gave it a swift glance. "Yeah."

"For your boss. Maybe he'll let you take the credit for it."

That seemed to remove some of the stigma of possibly acceding to his request. With her lips twisted to one side and her brows drawn—ensuring that Sherlock understood that she was doing him a favor and not the other way round—she examined his insights, and then flipped through the case file itself. Sherlock left her to it, collecting their empty mugs as he made his way to the kitchen, where a belated dose of paracetamol awaited him.

He returned several moments later, bearing a tray laden with tea things and plates of cake, which he distributed with a minimum of bending. Donovan noted the mug of steaming tea and John's leftover dessert on her table with some consternation. "What is this?"

"You failed to eat breakfast this morning."

"Maybe I didn't want any." This was a token objection. She wasn't salivating, but her flaring nostrils and dilated pupils betrayed keen interest.

"The borborygmi issuing from the region of your mid-section for the last hour strongly suggests otherwise."

"Borbor-what?" Her eyes flared; she believed he was insulting her.

"Stomach sounds. Borborygmi. From the Greek; probably onomatopoeic."

"Whatever that means. And no, I really don't care." But the enmity had drained away and she was once more as relaxed as she ever was in his company. "You are one poncy bastard, you know that?"

"Eat your cake, Inspector. One-time offering."

"There's already a bite missing."

"Well observed; but, two, actually. I can vouch for the wielder of the fork and assure you that the cake is no less tasty for having been already tasted."

Donovan's response, a classic harrumph, was barely civil, but her animosity did not prevent her from driving the tines of her fork into the moist crumb. "Poncy bastard," she said again. As cake met tongue, she made a grudgingly admiring sound, a cross between a hum and a sigh. "This … it's really good." Her gaze turned speculative. "What was the occasion?"

"John and Molly wanted cake."

"Birthday? Anniversary? Catching a serial killer?"

"Another serial killer, one of the worst ever." Sherlock corrected her. The last of his own piece of cake, saved from the evening before, was still very good and guaranteed to provide one more respectable sugar high.

"Was it worth it?" The question was asked far too ingenuously. It was, in fact, a sprinkling of salt in an open wound.

Sherlock recognized a set-up question when he heard one, but he was curious where she meant to go with it. "Twenty-four victims named so far, with likely more to follow. All of those deaths were previously attributed to natural causes, when they were actually family members taken before their time. What is your measure of worth, Inspector Donovan?"

"Well, I was thinking about the collateral damage." Donovan took another dainty bite. "Look at you: the drugs, the beating …"

"All part of my plan. I set it in motion weeks ago."

"Yeah?" She continued to study him, her brown eyes inexplicably filled with pity. "I saw your boyfriend when Greg brought him in—" She ignored Sherlock's huff of exasperation. "—and he looked bad. Defensive, guilty, embarrassed. A bit like he wanted to sick up his own guts."

"You should write for the red-tops."

"He put you in hospital, Holmes! Cracked ribs, stitches, bruises … with knuckle impressions. I saw the report, the photos—"

"You and most of Greater London, it would seem," Sherlock observed nastily.

"The sort of thing you see in domestic abuse—"

"For God's sake, Detective Inspector, I am not a battered spouse. And John Watson will tell you that he does not have a boyfriend. What exactly is the point of this conversation?" Sherlock fixed his fiercest glare on her. It did not help his mood that she was not at all intimidated.

In fact, when she responded, her voice was low and intense, and her eyes had taken on a fierceness to match Sherlock's own. "If he'd killed you, he'd be in prison. His daughter would be in care. You'd be dead, and all those other serial killers you might yet help us to stop would run free. He came bloody close, Holmes. They had to pull him off you. Was that part of your plan, too?"

The very air seemed to crackle. Several rejoinders roared through Sherlock's mind, each one more ill-advised, more savagely cutting than its predecessor. But before he could form the words that would wreak the most damage, she went on gravely, "I'm a cop. And because I'm a woman, I get stuck with most of the domestics. Not the easy ones; no, I get the ugly ones. Bashed-up wives and kids. And d'you know what the wives say? What the kids say? All the same, every one of them: 'He didn't mean it. It was me. It wasn't his fault.' "

But John didn't mean it. And I did provoke him. His wife died because of me. I made a vow—

Sherlock wanted to scream. But he took a steadying breath, lowered his voice, and matched Donovan's restrained tone. "Catching Culverton Smith—something the Met was manifestly incapable of doing—demanded a unique strategy. John Watson had reason to believe that things had escalated out of control, and quite rightly stepped in to secure the situation. I concede that there was some miscalculation, but it was all mine, not his."

"You're an idiot."

His appetite quite gone, Sherlock nevertheless crammed a heaping serving of cake into his mouth. Swiping at a smear of icing on his upper lip, he mumbled gracelessly, "It's been said."

Shaking her head disbelievingly, Donovan made room on the side table for her plate, took a slurp of her tea, and stood up. She held up the two case files that had served as a temporary lap tray, met Sherlock's gaze with a speaking look, and slapped them on the seat of John's chair. "Loo."

"Down the—"

"I know my way, Holmes."

As she strode away, Sherlock suppressed an unwilling smile. "Of course you do." Balancing the plate in one hand, he shoved Lestrade's cold case between the cushion and the arm of the chair. And then he leaned forward and scooped up the two unsupervised files, as he was meant to do, gasping a little at the compression of his ribs.

His mind went into overdrive as he scanned the case notes and examined the scene photos. The violent, locked-door death was intriguing, entailing a lengthy study of pictures of the body and its surroundings, as well as an intense reading of neighbors' accounts and forensic data. And if it tamped down the turmoil still churning in his guts after their … spirited … conversation, that was all to the good—not to mention that it was a case that actually presented something of a challenge, with an explanation for the cause of death that would never have occurred to anyone in the Met.

The other one was more straightforward, though he could understand why it had not occurred to the newly minted Detective Inspector who the actual perpetrator was. He was dashing details across a few adhesive note papers when Donovan returned to the room, her head bent over her phone. He realized that she had been absent quite a while, apparently using the privacy of the lavatory to make and return calls undisturbed. Sherlock tossed both case files onto John's chair.

"You are kidding me." Her features twisted with disbelief, she slid her phone into her jacket pocket and grabbed both the files and her plate. Wrangling both paper and cake almost resulted in the latter spilling into her lap. She chewed furiously as she scanned the notes Sherlock had strewn throughout, each one specific to a block of text or an item in a photo. "But he—"

"Reread the fifth paragraph of the third witness's statement." Sherlock was by then intent on his own laptop again.

Her face sharp with concentration, Donovan compared his notes with the information in the case file. Watching her surreptitiously, Sherlock permitted himself the tiniest of smiles when the lines on her forehead smoothed away and she let out a whistling breath between her teeth. "Yeah," she conceded. "All right. Yeah." Resurrecting her glower, she said, "It needs verifying, but—"

"But the wrong man is in custody."

Her mouth tightened. "Procedure. If you're right, he'll be out by the end of the day; tomorrow morning at the latest." Her eyes were already scanning his notes in the second file, and Sherlock, lips pursed with anticipation, was rewarded when her eyebrows crawled up toward her hairline. Clearly incredulous, she faltered as she began to read aloud, "Cerebral toxo—"

"Cerebral toxoplasmosis-psychosis-induced suicide."

"How is that different from a psychotic break?" Donovan demanded. "She still stabbed herself in the chest, throat, and abdomen with a butcher knife!"

"Chef's knife," Sherlock amended precisely. "Important distinction."

"And how is this cerebral whatsit important?"

"You accept that it was psychosis, Detective Inspector. I have simply pointed out the cause of it."

Folding her arms across her chest, Donovan sat back in John's chair. "Go on, then. You're dying to impress me. Explain."

He knew before he launched into his explanation that she would not believe him, and was well aware himself how far-fetched it would sound. There was even a slim possibility that he was incorrect. But it might encourage her to be more observant at crime scenes, to keep an open mind when encountering something unusual—and he really could not resist pointing out the things others had missed. Smart arse. It was John's voice inside his head. Affectionate, admiring John. From before.

"It was the cat."

"The cat." Her face went slack.

"The cat, which is now dead. Maybe given away; more likely dead." He tapped his bottom lip as he thought it through. "Its dying could only have worsened the deceased's depression."

Donovan appeared dumbfounded. "You think she stabbed herself to death because her cat died?"

"Don't forget the cerebral toxoplasmosis." It was very apparent that Donovan understood nothing of what he was trying to tell her. "Right. A little background. Cats can pass parasites on to humans, and certain parasites—"

"No cat."

"Until recently," he said with added stress, "there was a cat. Look at the pictures of the floor of the sitting room." With grudging reluctance, Donovan flipped through the pages until she found the right photos. "Still no cat."

"Inspector Donovan," Sherlock said repressively, "did I not just say that the cat is dead? Therefore, not surprisingly, you will not see the cat itself." He waved a hand at the pictures. "But tell me that you—even you—see the square indentation in the carpet next to the window. That is where a cat scratching pole stood."

"It could've been a small table."

"It could have been, but it wasn't. Also, note the slight shredding on the corners of the sofa and the chair. Typical signs of cat behavior."

There were spots of color high up on Donovan's cheeks and her nostrils were flaring, but she had yet to shout at him, which boded well for her career. "Fine," she said tersely. "Let's say there was a cat. There must be millions of cats in London alone. But nobody else is going around stabbing themselves to death with a fu—with a chef's knife!" The elevation of her voice did not quite qualify as shouting and she had caught herself before using vulgar language, so Sherlock did not mention it. In any case, he much preferred when people were actively engaged, thinking, and processing and, if the tension in her voice and the vividness of her expression were anything to go by, Donovan was experiencing at least two of those things.

So, he leaned forward, this the moment he preferred above almost all others. "Quite right. But to the point, Inspector: This cat gave its owner the toxoplasma gondii parasite, which it probably acquired from a mouse or other small rodent, which it ingested either before or after becoming her pet. Sometimes that parasite crosses the blood-brain barrier and takes up residence in the host's brain, causing an infection called cerebral toxoplasmosis. In rare cases—very rare, I grant you—the infection can result in psychosis. I believe you will find, upon further investigation, the following: evidence of infection; proof of a compromised immune system, either as the result of long-term illness or treatment for same; and a history of depression, possibly mental illness in general. All of which, in combination, can result in psychosis."

"That's mad."

Sherlock nodded approvingly at Donovan's choice of words. "Your fiber studies show a few animal hairs, unidentified. It's a negligible number which could have been carried in on the victim, yes. But, if I am right, examination of the crevices between the carpet and the skirting boards will produce an abundance of cat hair and dander. You will also likely find that her antidepression meds ran out within the last few weeks—there is an empty bottle in the kitchen cupboard where she kept her drugs. She lost her cat or had it put down, stopped taking her meds for whatever reason, and her brain was aggressively conspiring against her."

"But …"

"Ask Molly to send brain specimens out for a DNA study. If the Met won't stand the expense, then write the whole thing off as a case of psychotic break with no etiology, resulting in fatality. You and I will know the truth." He smiled triumphantly.

Donovan blinked a few times, her mouth slightly ajar. Finally, she said, "You really are a freak."

All of his elation, all of his exhilaration in sharing his brilliance, instantly died, though his smile remained stuck on his face and only slowly began to fade. There was a time when he would have lashed back. But he could hear John's voice, as if his lips were next to his ear: Not worth it. So he heeded John's words and said mildly, "Broken record, Inspector."

She had the temerity to laugh. And then she took his breath away, saying, "Freaking bloody genius. How do you put up with yourself?"

Sherlock had to look away, turning his gaze on his empty hands. Emotional whiplash left him without his usual arsenal of words, and he found that he needed a moment to regain his equilibrium. At last he raised his head and offered a cocky smile. "It's a constant challenge, I assure you."

Pulling a face, she set to scribbling in the folder. While she worked, Sherlock resumed his study of Lestrade's last cold case. The distraction of the woman's death had permitted him to reset his thoughts, and soon the summary page was covered with notes. It was with a sense of some accomplishment that he at last clicked the pen to retract the tip and closed the folder.

Tapping his finger on the arm of the chair, he considered what he might do next. Donovan, without looking up from her own laptop, extended her hand and beckoned with her fingers for Lestrade's cold case. Amused, Sherlock gave her the file. At some point, she had cleared away their dishes and traded the two files for her laptop. Now she pulled another six folders from her case and passed them over, all without bothering to make eye contact.

Sherlock craned his head in an attempt to see what was on her screen, but she turned it another few degrees, effectively blocking his view. "Right." He stood, then, and cast a quick glance down, only to be foiled once more when Donovan drew the lid downward with the tip of a finger. "Tea," he stated more than asked.

"Yes, please."

As he waited for the kettle to boil, Sherlock pondered the incongruity of being able to sit in companionable silence with Sally Donovan, of all people, for any length of time. To have done so for the better part of the morning, unnoticed, was a marvel.

He was thinking that he was overdue for a shower, and that his teeth could use a brushing and, oh God, he was really very tired of the scruff on his face, when Donovan's phone rang. There had been other calls, all of which she had taken in the privacy of the toilet. She flicked a glance at the screen and swiped to answer, apparently unconcerned whether he overheard her side of the conversation this time.

Her speech was interspersed with short pauses and marked by a number of expressions ranging from curiosity to frustration. "Yeah … Good … I'll check … Of course. Sir." The final word confirmed his suspicion as to the name of her caller. No one received that level of fond respect except Lestrade. She ended the call, folded her laptop shut, and looked across the room at him, her flat gaze telling him everything he needed to know.

Switching the kettle off, Sherlock said, "Mrs Hudson is next on the schedule at noon, but she's off visiting her sister. I expect John at six; however, he's at the surgery today." He allowed that to sink in, noting the flash of irritation at his having anticipated her question. "Fortunately, Molly is off from the morgue most of this week. Would you like me to phone her?"

Donovan's dead-eyed stare told him exactly what she was thinking. She did not trust him, but he had given her very little to argue against. "Sure."

His heart rate went from zero to ninety in a second. He thumbed his screen and dialed Molly's number. He knew, of course, that she was at a conference, but it was possible, remotely possible, that he might pull this off. Freedom.

When Molly's phone rang through to voicemail, Sherlock began to speak. "Yes, it's me. Look, Donovan … um, Detective Inspector Donovan … Yes, she's been promoted; didn't your friend tell you?" He frowned, as if he were being scolded. "Sorry. Here's the thing. She has a case. Any chance you might be able to …?" He raised his brows, deliberately meeting Donovan's eyes. "Half an hour? You're sure? Yes, all right, I'll ask." To Donovan, he said, "Molly can be here in a bit under thirty minutes." He extended his hand, offering up the phone. "Do you want to confirm with her?"

For a breathless moment, Sherlock was certain that she would call his bluff. Her eyes scoured his face, and he found himself unexpectedly tempted to confess. But he held his ground, even muttered, "Hold on, Molly" for authenticity. And then, brows still raised, he pretended to impatiently await her decision.

Donovan's lips compressed and she looked at him askance, as if closer scrutiny would improve the odds of reading him correctly. Then she twisted her wrist so that she could read her watch face. "Thank you, Molly!" she called out.

Maintaining the charade at perhaps its most crucial stage, Sherlock raised the phone to his lips. "Did you hear that? Yes. Oh, and don't forget to bring those— All right. Yes." He ended the call and swung round once more to turn on the kettle, which, still warm, began to bubble almost immediately.

He was feeling enormously pleased with himself as he dropped teabags into two mugs, already entertaining the options suddenly made available to him. Someone had moved the sugar pot again, and he was in the middle of shifting jars and mugs in the cupboard over the worktop when he realized that Donovan had not moved from John's chair.

"Oh," he exclaimed. "Of course. You'll want to wait until she gets here." He took down a third mug. "Well, then, there's time for a coffee or tea. Hm. You wouldn't happen to know where the sugar got off to?"

"Behind you, on the table."

He mimed his thanks with a jerk of his brows and twisted round to single out the pot from the clutter of books and used tumblers. Consulting the time would be a dead giveaway, but he reckoned he had about twenty-five minutes before the game was up. John would be disappointed when he found out. Or would he? Sherlock flung open the door of the pantry cupboard and began to dig through the provisions, all of which one of Mycroft's minions had kindly delivered. Upon finding a packet of biscuits, he said, "Aha!" even though biscuits were the last thing he needed or wanted at this moment. In fact, he felt a little woozy, his heart beating too quickly, his ribs pulsing painfully in sync.

"Was that coffee or tea?" he asked as the kettle switched off, and he began to pour.

Donovan stood up and grabbed her things. "Nothing for me."

"No?" He tapped his watch. "There's still twenty minutes."

"No." She walked across the sitting room floor. "I really have to go."

"All right." He hoped to reassure her with an expression of utter innocence, one he had practiced many times in front of the mirror and knew to be effective. "You really needn't worry. John was prepared to leave me on my own for twenty minutes just last night." It always helped to throw in a truth when serving a platter of lies.

But she continued to watch him with clearly mixed emotions as she reached for the door handle. "Look, Holmes …"

"Yes?"

"I just want to say … I appreciate your help."

This was not at all what he had expected. He cleared his throat. "My pleasure."

"Just …" She paused, and he steeled himself for what was almost certainly coming: Don't mess up. Get it right this time. Try to do better. But all she said was, "Yeah. I'll let you know about the cat."

Sherlock twitched a smile. "I appreciate it. And, Inspector—congratulations, again." They had begun the day with animosity, but now, between them, there was a hesitant respect. Sherlock felt a tiny bit of remorse at his deception, well aware that Donovan would probably never trust him again, once she learned the truth. But as she went out the door, he reminded himself that she had far more important things to do than sit about helping him drink tea, and there really had been no one else to take her place. All the same, when the street door closed and he was quite alone in the flat, his victory felt rather tarnished and unearned.

But only for a moment. Standing tall, a hand at the bottom of his chest, he rose on his toes and spun in place. Before he could topple over, he braced himself with legs apart and broke into a huge grin. The tea forgotten, he considered his options.

Shave, shower, clean his teeth, take his stitches out, and then—

The smooth face that looked back at him in the partially fogged mirror was gaunt, cheekbones more prominent than ever and, without a beard to conceal them, the bruises on his jaw, lurid in shades of yellow and green, were clearly visible. After disinfecting the blades of the scissors from the first aid box with isopropyl alcohol, Sherlock employed tweezers to lift the sutures away from the ridge of his brow, which gave a small space for the tips of the scissors to slide through. He snipped each stitch free, taking care not to cut off his eyebrow hairs along with them. The seam of broken skin was still pink, but no longer painful.

Once he had brushed his teeth, tamed his hair, and dressed in clean clothing, Sherlock felt much more himself, if a little fatigued. It occurred to him that he had eaten nothing but cake and tea and probably ought to balance that with something at least marginally nutritious. John would be proud of him. Would, at one time, have been proud of him. After a bit of rummaging in the kitchen, he put together a couple of slices of cheese and a few crackers, which he carried back into the sitting room, munching delicately, his jaw not yet ready for pressure.

But for the first time in weeks, his head was clear, well and truly clear. Everything he had done—well, almost everything, as there were moments, hours, even days that had been lost to the drugs, to the mania, to his time in hospital—was stark inside his head, in humiliatingly graphic detail. The drugs lab in 221B, ranting Shakespeare while firing a handgun (whose gun?), terrorizing Mrs Hudson, terrorizing Wiggins. Shooting up, shooting up, shooting up.

It wasn't Mary's fault that he had chosen opioids to put himself in harm's way. In the weeks following her death, when it had seemed that nothing could remedy his estrangement from John, he would have done anything to be allowed back into his life and, for him, drugs had been the go-to solution. That they also had—in the lunatic quantities he had taken—the unfortunate side effect of warping his reason and subverting his sense of reality had been a consequence he had failed to take into consideration. An almost fatal failure on his part.

He set the plate, with the small meal scarcely touched, onto the table. Thinking about John and, worse, of that time, was not conducive to peace of mind. Yesterday evening, for those few, glorious moments, he had thought there might be a chance. But, if there had been, he had almost certainly ruined it. It was quite possible that he would never see John again. Even if he had remembered him with cocoa.

Sighing wordlessly, he pondered the small stack of cold cases. They would distract him, for a while. Too, he ought to look over his long neglected website, even though it was quite probably littered with insipid requests: lost pets, lost personal belongings, lost loves. Boring.

It had been a measure of his desperation that he had taken Mary's advice—because he knew John Watson, better than anyone in the world, and it had been all too obvious that the man had succumbed to his self-destructive tendencies: Drinking to excess; fobbing his infant daughter off on anyone who would take her (except Sherlock); contemplating suicide.

And so Mary had been right: John had needed saving. And Sherlock had accomplished that much, even if, in the doing, he had almost destroyed them both. Would Mary have been shocked by the savagery John had displayed towards his former best friend that day in the morgue, the impaired best friend who had made no effort to protect himself, much less fight back? If she had witnessed that, would she have realized that John actually now hated him, would, in fact, likely have killed him, had others not intervened? That he would never have lifted a finger to protect him from harm of any kind, without Mary's having told him to do so?

It was a corrosive anger that John harbored towards him, worse even than Sherlock had suspected. Bart's; the cruel years of grief that had followed; Sherlock's bumbling resurrection; his insistence on being the Watson family protector; his favoring of Mary as his assistant (only logical, keeping an assassin diverted). After four years of lies, manipulation, and exploitation, John's suppressed rage had become an incendiary device and Mary's sacrifice had lit the touch paper that had set it off.

During one of Sherlock's late night recovery sessions, when the craving had crawled under his skin like an army of fire ants, Lestrade had recounted what John had told him that night: "We always saw it coming." And he had wondered just what John had meant by that. That the day would come when Sherlock would spin out of control, that his grasp on reality would give way? But he had also said, "But it was fun." An acknowledgment, surely, that he had been a willing participant in the madness that was Sherlock Holmes's life? But what had John thought of his part in all of it? Had he not felt complicit? Had he so thoroughly made Sherlock the villain that he could excuse all his own actions?

Perhaps the most important question, of all the questions concerning John Watson, was whether that rage had burnt out. Yesterday, it had seemed that it might have.

He stood up abruptly, gasping when his ribs protested the sudden change in position. After a moment, the waves of pain receded and his vision cleared. When he was sure of himself once more, he returned to the kitchen, where he tipped the plate over the bin and put it and his still full mug in the sink.

His fingers needed something to do, something to quell their fidgeting, so he turned to his violin. It had lain in its case, untouched, for weeks. Sitting in his chair, he spent an unhurried half hour polishing the top and bottom plates, replacing the strings, and cleaning the bow of rosin build-up. And then, standing in front of the window, he scraped the bow across the bridge—and it sounded as coarse as he had feared it would. The next attempt was better, the third better still. It would be a while before he achieved the purity, the silkiness of tone that he was capable of; but, for now, it was good enough that he could lose himself in the pleasure of playing and listening, at least a little.

The strings sang the memory of John in his arms, vivid, bittersweet, extraordinary. It had taken every ounce of bravery Sherlock possessed to offer the comfort of his embrace, having fully expected that John would rip into him, quite possibly shove him away. But he had allowed himself to be held, his shoulders racked with helpless sobs, clearly having reached the end of his endurance. Conversely, it had been the best moment of Sherlock's life.

The time had come, of course, when John's tears had slowed, when his breathing had steadied, when he had coughed self-consciously to signal the return of his control. Sherlock had coaxed his handkerchief into John's hand, ludicrously encouraged when John had accepted it with a damp laugh.

After a moment of scrubbing the moisture off his face, he had tilted his head back, his lashes still dark with tears, his eyes intensely blue, and managed a tiny, slanted smile. Could Sherlock be forgiven, then, for having lowered his own head, pausing just for an instant so that his intentions were obvious, and then setting his mouth with exquisite precision upon John's lips? As kisses go, it had been sweetly shy and optimistically affectionate, simple and almost childish. But when it had ended, John had looked up and regarded Sherlock with a strange light in his eyes.

Lots of thinking had been going on behind that unruffled exterior, but there had been nothing to reveal the direction of his thoughts. Sherlock's first instinct had been to fill the silence, to babble, "We can forget that ever happened," or, "Show me how to do that properly," or, even, "Can we do that again?" But he had said none of that before John had sniffed loudly and taken a step back, yet not so far back that Sherlock's fingers were dislodged from his neck or his hand from his upper arm. In fact, it seemed as though he had taken care not to shift his shoulders at all, only raising his chin a little further—a motion that had driven Sherlock's fingers deeper into his hair, something John must have been aware of—and, with a fragile smile playing about his lips, had declared, "It's your birthday."

Sherlock's brain had locked up, with only a single functional thought: This was one of the reasons he loved John Watson. No one else could ever blindside him so comprehensively, not even Mycroft. Trying to decipher the significance of that statement, Sherlock had replied with a slow nod. "We've established that."

John's smile had steadied, widened. "Well, if High Wycombe is out of the question, then we need to celebrate some other way."

For an instant, Sherlock's insides had performed a startling gyration, causing his fingers to curl nervously around John's neck. "Do you mean—?"

But John had wrested his phone from his pocket and waved it in front of Sherlock as if that would answer his unfinished—and now pointless—question. "Cake," he had said decisively, and there had been something of John's old enthusiasm in his face and his voice. Only then had Sherlock regretfully withdrawn his touch, his fingers inadvertently—well, not altogether inadvertently—caressing John's cheek as he, too, had put space between them. John had given him a quick, probing look through red-rimmed, puffy eyes before returning his attention to his screen. And then, even though Sherlock had said nothing more, he had brought up a finger as he had spoken into his phone. "It's Sherlock's birthday. Yeah! I didn't know either. Where's a good place to go?"

The melody soured as the ache in Sherlock's ribs worsened—and he relived his blunders of those last moments in the flat. John had withdrawn into a watchful silence while waiting for Sherlock to put himself together for their outing. Terrified that he had sabotaged their tentative reconciliation, Sherlock had become uneasily voluble. He had first tried sympathy: It was only texting. Confession: Even I text sometimes. Her, I mean. The Woman. Understanding: "...we might all just be human." And John, still quiet but receptive, had actually engaged with him. But then evidently Sherlock had gone too far, clumsily attempting humor: I'm Sherlock Holmes. I wear the damn hat." John had laughed, seemingly genuinely amused—until Sherlock had joked, Isn't that right, Mary?"

Sherlock lowered the violin from his shoulder and stood for a moment, resigned. His breathing had tightened, another headache was forming behind his eyes, and every bruise on his body seemed to be waking up, throbbing to the beat of his heart. It would be annoyingly ironic if he spent the remaining hours of freedom curled up on the sofa, wrapped around a hot-water bottle.

He would not let that be his fate. If John were here—John from before—he would tell Sherlock that he needed to eat something, that he had missed taking his painkillers earlier, and he ought to sit down for a bit. John's advice was usually, if tediously, sound, and he would follow it. But first he tended to his violin, giving it the maintenance it deserved before enclosing it in its case.

As he shuffled into the kitchen, he heard the street door open. According to his watch, Mrs Hudson was home early. He listened for movement, but there was only the wailing of sirens, the clatter of a pneumatic drill, the honking of horns, and the unending drone of vehicles out on the road, until he heard the barely audible click of the door closing, which dulled the racket to something approaching silence. As she was not due to take over for another two hours and thirty-seven minutes, he attempted to banish her from his mind.

It wasn't as if they were on the best of terms, anyway. There had been no tender words of sympathy from her, no fluttering about helping with meals or tea. After all, according to her, it wasn't John's fault that Sherlock's rehabilitation had been complicated by his injuries. "Brought it on yourself, didn't you, dear. You know that Mary's death hurt him almost as much as … well, almost as much as your make-believe death. Really, you ought to have known better." The damage done to the kitchen and sitting room walls had had nothing to do with it. Or so she claimed.

The paracetamol was in the top drawer, individual packets of two tablets. He assumed that John had counted them out when he put them in there, so that he could track their diminishing numbers in the event Sherlock was tempted to take them by the handful. He could use a handful right now. Making do with a tumbler from the growing pile of soiled crockery in the sink, he gulped the tablets down with a mouthful of water and fervently wished them godspeed.

John would suggest tea now and, since the kettle was at hand and the tablets would do little enough even once they took effect, he accepted it as a good suggestion. After dropping a teabag into the third mug that had gone unused, he leaned forward to take his weight off his ribs and closed his eyes, blindly following the heating of the water by its increasing pitch, and thought about what he might coerce his stomach into tolerating.

"He will come back, you know."

Just then the kettle clicked off. Sherlock poured still agitated water into the mug and reached for the sugar pot. "Will he now?"

Mary was sitting on the edge of the small table next to the closed door to the hallway, her feet kicking back and forth, looking the same as she had the day she died. She smirked, rather than answering, her eyes sharp with intelligence and humor.

"I thought you'd gone." Sherlock added sugar to his mug and absently stirred it in. "As in gone for good."

She gave him an arch look, darkly amused. "You're the one who wants to talk."

He shook his head and leaned back against the worktop, studying her across the cluttered dining table. "Pointless."

"Well, as you know, my schedule is wide open." She sat back and clasped her interlaced fingers around one knee. "Let me go first. You want advice about my husband."

He had never liked John's being someone's husband, no matter how hard he had tried to reconcile himself to it. "Widowed husband."

She grinned at him knowingly. "You're welcome?"

The breath caught in Sherlock's throat. "That's ..."

"Cold? A bit, I suppose. But, then, I am dead."

"Mary—"

She pulled herself upright, hands curled around the edge of the table for balance. "So. Advice." She put a finger to her cheek, pretending to think. "The most important thing to remember about John Watson," she said, at last, "is that he thinks he's a failure."

Sherlock growled at her.

"It is what he believes, and you know it. Failed son, brother, soldier, surgeon, husband, father, friend." She ended the sing-song recitation with a flourish, looking pleased with herself. "Pretty much covers it all, don't you agree?"

"I do not agree, no. John is not a failure."

Mary snorted inelegantly. "A man so uncomfortable in himself he risks dying to avoid thinking about suicide?" Sherlock winced. "The only time in his life—since Afghanistan, I think—that he was truly happy was when he was with you. And, for a little while, with me." Her blue eyes hardened, losing their guise of friendliness. "Until you came back. He never loved anyone the way he loved you."

"Stop it."

"Make me." She waggled her brows, her smile more than a little spiteful now. "I can't count the number of times I woke to the sound of your name, after yet another nightmare. Sherlock!"

There had been few cats in Sherlock's life, but it took only one to transfer the toxoplasma microorganism. Perhaps Mary's presence was an artefact of that exposure. Closing his eyes did not send her away; he could hear the swish of her legs as she resumed swinging her feet. "I know he cared about me," he admitted heavily. "Too much. And he may even have loved me at one time, as a friend, but since you died—"

She exclaimed under her breath, "You think he hates you!"

"He does hate me. Yesterday—"

"Yesterday, he had to get home to his daughter, you big baby. After overstaying his time, yet again. For you, Sherlock." She let that sink in before adding in a low voice that was almost velvety with envy, "He let you hold him while he cried. He would never have done that with me."

"That was yesterday," Sherlock whispered. "Today he will remember all the reasons he should keep his distance."

"You're wallowing."

The acerbic, but astute, observation made Sherlock concede a laugh, albeit a tiny one. "I blame it on the drugs."

A dimple appeared in her cheek. "You wouldn't be wrong."

They'd had so many of these chats, both of them frustrated by a sense of unfinished business. He knew she wasn't real, merely a manifestation of his guilt-ridden mind. But she said things he would never have voiced aloud or even in the privacy of his own head. Strangely, she did help him to think.

Did John still care for him? Stroking a finger along his bottom lip, he recalled their kiss. John could have jerked away, could have given Sherlock a shove. But he had not seemed angry, or in any way upset. No, his reaction had been a rather disconcerting non-reaction, as if this were the sort of thing that was not unexpected between them. Unfortunately, casual acceptance was a very different thing from love.

Mary was speaking again, a hand in her hair, twisting a pale strand between thumb and forefinger. "It was always you, you know. Despite the girlfriends. Despite me. And, of course, he could never really forgive me for almost … " She rolled her eyes dramatically. "… all right, for briefly killing you. And that girl on the bus—she meant nothing to him. Yes, he said he wanted more." She gave her head a dismissive toss. "But the more he wanted was always you."

"Not that way."

"Ah, Sherlock. Let's not be coy." She lowered her voice to a confiding whisper. "He used to say your name at other times, too."

Sherlock stared at her. "I don't believe you. John would never have said my name when you were … when the two of you were …"

"Nope," John said, as he ambled round the corner of the kitchen and came to stand in the doorway. "That bit is true, actually."

The world juddered to a halt; white noise filled Sherlock's head. This could not be John—he was not due for hours. Had Sherlock slipped from one hallucination to another? But when he blinked hard, his vision steadying, he saw that it was indeed his John, John who was now openly studying him in turn, a searing examination from the top of his head down to his bare feet. The sardonic arch of his brow and the belligerent jut of his chin spoke volumes: exasperation, annoyance, concern; but there was also, in the wry curve of his lips and the warmth of his eyes, affection.

Sherlock tried to cover his embarrassment at having been caught out by saying abruptly, "Donovan grassed me."

"As it happens," John said evenly, "I rang her. To let her know that I was taking over early."

"And she said—?"

"That Molly was filling in."

"But Molly—"

"Oddly enough, is at a conference." While talking, John had casually crossed the floor. He came to a stop at the kitchen worktop, his eyes flicking over the dirty dishes in the sink, the mugs of abandoned tea, the empty paracetamol packet. He tilted his head back and looked up expectantly into Sherlock's face. Sherlock sighed and robotically began to roll up his sleeves, but John caught one exposed wrist and gave it a squeeze. "I know the signs. That's not necessary." He turned his attention back towards the sink. The recently brewed cup caught his eye and he picked it up and drained it in one long swallow. Sherlock, watching him, unconsciously swallowed, too.

"Why didn't you ring me?" John asked, his voice too calm, Sherlock thought, as he scooped teabags out of mugs and dropped them into the bin. Motioning for Sherlock to shift out of the way, he refilled the kettle, and while it began to heat, he washed tea scum out of two of the many used mugs, his motions practiced, homely.

This familiar domesticity brought with it confusion. Tea was John's bulwark when preparing for confrontation, but Sherlock wasn't ready for this to be the last conversation they ever had—because that's why he was here early, wasn't it, to say goodbye? "You were meant to be working. And—It's the first time I've been alone in weeks."

"You didn't seem to be alone." John shut off the tap and cast an eloquent look over his shoulder before reaching up for the container of teabags. His composure was perversely unsettling. "And that wasn't what we agreed to."

"Stamford canceled."

"And?"

"Lestrade talked Donovan into taking his place."

"And?"

Sherlock said, a little meanly, "She ate the rest of your cake."

That prompted a muffled snort of laughter, a sound Sherlock had feared never to hear again. The frozen dread inside him began to thaw, just a little. "I won't starve," John said and waved Sherlock out of the way again as he went across to the refrigerator and opened the door. "Mrs Hudson is showing Rosie how to make ginger nuts. Good lord, is that milk?" He unscrewed the cap and sniffed. "And actually drinkable!"

"Rosie?"

"You said you wanted to see her."

An intense yearning made him briefly mute. When he found his voice, it was unintentionally much lower than usual. "Very much. It's been—a while."

The kettle clicked off.

With the tea set to brew, John turned around, braced his forearms on the worktop behind him, and raised his head again. They stared at each other for far longer than most people would find comfortable. But Sherlock could not get his fill of the other man, and John seemed content to gaze at him in return.

His eyes were very blue, alert, and unguarded. There was a collectedness about him that had been lacking lately, and Sherlock could almost believe that he had come to terms with all the recent wretchedness in his life. But he knew John Watson, and John Watson could smile when he was a hair's breadth away from igniting with rage, and laugh when that rage exploded into violence. It was one of the things Sherlock adored about him—not his capacity for violence, though it had its uses—but Sherlock's inability to read him unless John allowed it. "You look like you're doing okay," John commented.

Before Sherlock could answer, John broke away to complete the tea-making. "Let me just get this sorted." Once sugar had been stirred into one mug, milk dolloped into the other, and the carton of milk restored to the refrigerator, John did not return to the worktop. Instead, he walked with intent right up to Sherlock. Standing inches away, he slid his hands up the lapels of Sherlock's dressing gown and gave them a tug. "Off with that."

Sherlock, flustered by John's proximity, responded with a mild protest. "You want to check my arms? I thought—"

"You didn't make it to your follow-up."

Sherlock groaned. He had refused Mycroft's driver when he had appeared at his door yesterday morning. His injuries were healing and he did not need a doctor's opinion to confirm that. But this was John, and he was staring insistently into Sherlock's eyes. Still, it was his nature to resist. "Shouldn't you be wearing gloves?"

John's lips quirked. Evidently taking Sherlock's contrary words as permission, he began to push the dressing gown off his shoulders. He caught Sherlock's wrists and angled them upward, so that the silk remained on his forearms and didn't slip to the floor. "You kissed me," John said. He half cocked a brow, briefly meeting Sherlock's eyes—undoubtedly wide with surprise before he could suppress his reaction—and then set to work opening the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. "My hands on you ought not to be a shock."

"I'm … not sure I follow the logic."

But John, pulling the sides of the shirt apart and lifting it up so that Sherlock was bared, seemed not to hear him. He placed the tips of his fingers against the mottled bruises that discolored Sherlock's skin, his touch light, professional—even when he checked his lower abdomen and the base of his spine by peeking beneath his waistband. Seemingly from nowhere he produced a stethoscope, which must have been in his back pocket, and Sherlock had not noticed it. He breathed deeply at John's command, stoically attempting to conceal his wincing. John was not fooled and patted his shoulder comfortingly as he moved around to his back. He gestured vaguely up towards Sherlock's face. "I see that you've shaved and removed your stitches. You must be feeling better." There was a moment more of clinical inspection before the stethoscope vanished again. But at last, still standing behind him, John lowered the hem of Sherlock's shirt. "You can tell Mycroft that, despite everything, you're doing remarkably well." He raised Sherlock's dressing gown back up and onto his shoulders, and there his hands remained for a moment before gliding down Sherlock's sides.

"Not really Mycroft's business," Sherlock muttered. His obstinacy was pro forma; Mycroft probably already knew, having heard it through one of his recently replaced bugs.

John continued to stand behind him, the soft raggedness of his breathing noticeable only because of the silence between them. Sherlock needed to see his face, to understand what was going on in his mind. He twisted, disregarding the complaint of his ribs, but this time John seized the crests of his hips and pressed closer, effectively stilling him. And then Sherlock felt the weight of John's head come to lie between the tops of his shoulder blades. "You should have insisted on charges."

"Not in a thousand years."

John stepped away; Sherlock wanted him back immediately. "Let's sit. We need to talk, and you're trembling."

The temptation to counter with a flippant retort was almost overpowering. But Sherlock merely murmured a wordless agreement, because whatever the reason, he was trembling, and he was more than ready to sit down.

John followed him into the lounge, where he set their mugs on the side tables. He stood ready to assist as Sherlock haltingly lowered himself into his chair.

"You're as pale as I've ever seen you."

Sherlock slowly sat back with a relieved sigh. His fingers set to work rebuttoning his shirt. "Yesterday was worse. Today is better. I expect to be able to say the same tomorrow."

John nodded, but his expression was fixed, almost grim. Sherlock suspected that he was about to be subjected to another round of admonitions and chivvying and prepared himself to weather it, schooling his features to stolid acceptance.

"When did you start talking to my dead wife?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, closed it. He took refuge in his tea, eyeing John as if he might say something else thoroughly disconcerting. John waited, still standing. "Sherlock?"

"We had a lovely chat while you were burying her." Sherlock set his mug on the arm of the chair, his fingers curled round the handle, his thumb on the rim.

John scrubbed a hand across his face. "Christ."

After a moment, Sherlock ventured, "You?"

Flashing one of those "I can't believe this conversation!" grimaces, John turned his eyes towards the ceiling. He let out a long, gusting breath and shifted his shoulders. "A couple of days after she died. Might have been sooner, but I don't remember any of that time very well." He put his hands on his hips. "It was like, you know, I was trying to show Harry how to really excel at being an alcoholic, or something. Weird time loss. Hallucinations." His face slowly sharpened with suspicion. "But that was you, wasn't it? You decided that I was too drunk to drive, so you started disabling my car. And then it'd be fine in the morning. Thought I was going mad."

"Yes. That was me."

"Jesus," John bowed his head and let it swing slowly from side to side. "I guess I should thank you for that. What with the drink, and Rosie, and, oh God, just everything, I might have been … a bit …"

Sherlock sipped his tea, then positioned the mug so that his face was at least a little obscured. "Perhaps, a bit."

The memory apparently still grated. John made a disgruntled noise and dropped into his chair. He picked up his mug and wrapped his hands around it, as if in need of its warmth. Consulting its milky depths, he said, "I know why I saw her. It's called denial." He spoke the last word with acid emphasis. "But why did you?"

Sherlock contemplated how much he should reveal. He had, of course, long since thought this through. "Possibly for the same reason? And guilt, of course, though that seems rather trite. Worry … about you, which was something she and I always shared." He raised his shoulder, allowed it to drop. "But, mostly, yes, denial. If she wasn't really dead, then I hadn't really lost you."

John flinched. He gazed down into his own mug and did not speak for a long moment. "Yeah, there was guilt." He made a sudden, low hissing sound. "But you know what? She never felt it, guilt. Not when she shot you. Not when she left Rosie and me." His lip curled. "No wonder she was so good at her job."

"Nevertheless, she did love you, John."

"She was a plant, Sherlock." He shot a fierce glare Sherlock's way. "Yeah, you don't look surprised at all. How long have you known?"

"I guessed."

"You never guess." John closed his eyes and exhaled loudly through his nose. "She brought it up after we got back from her little jaunt around the world. I should have left her then. I didn't leave her when she shot you; but I should certainly have done then. But she said sorry, said that she was out of the game, that she would never have gotten pregnant if she didn't mean to stay, that she would do anything to make things right between us."

John's voice faded away, his bitterness lingering on the air. Sherlock said nothing. During John's stay at Baker Street, while overseeing Sherlock's recuperation, they had argued for hours and days and weeks whether John should return to Mary. John had been vehemently opposed. But there was Rosie, after all, not yet born. There was John, wanting to be a good father, wanting a family, in spite of everything. There was Sherlock, persuading John to forgive Mary, believing that he would regret it if he did not go back. And there was Mary, cunning, calculating Mary, who had weighed the odds and picked the time when she could die a hero. Sherlock felt compelled to point out, "You were going to end it, anyway, eventually."

"See," John said, and the bitterness faded to sadness, "you do know everything."

Setting his mug on the table, Sherlock replied, "She knew it. But she couldn't let that happen, not willingly. In dying the way she did, she gave you your freedom. And she made amends."

"Tell you that, did she?"

"Yes. More than once."

With more than a hint of mockery, John said, "Even though everything the two of you talked about was only ever inside your head?"

"Was it?" Sherlock offered up a slightly mocking smile of his own. "In any case, it was based on years of careful observation and experiential data."

John laughed. But there was anger and sorrow in his laughter, and not a little misery. "I hated her. And I loved her. And I wished we had never met. When she died …" He folded his arms across his chest and bent forward, as if in pain. "It felt like it was my fault, but it also felt like relief. Rosie's mother was dead, and I … just … couldn't …"

Ignoring his own discomfort, Sherlock struggled out of his chair and went to John, who surged up and into his arms. "What I said yesterday," John whispered against Sherlock's chest, "was the truth. I wasn't going to help you, and to hell with rescuing you. But if you had died, again, I swear to God, Sherlock—I swear to God, it would have been the end of me, too."

The meaning of what John was confessing filled Sherlock with horror. His fingers stilled in John's hair. "But Rosie—"

"Someone else, someone sane, someone competent, would've taken her. Molly, Greg; maybe even Mycroft would've arranged something."

"John."

"Yeah, I know." He tucked his head deeper beneath Sherlock's chin. "Sherlock. I'm fucking in love with you. And I want another chance—even though you'd be an idiot to even consider it."

"I—" Sherlock tried to swallow past the knot in his throat. "I didn't think you would ever want that."

John stirred, drew back, but only far enough so that he could look up into Sherlock's face. He slipped one hand free of their embrace and raised it to cup Sherlock's cheek. Lightly brushing his thumb underneath the still reddened eye, he breathed, "I always wanted it."

Yesterday's kiss had been the pinnacle of Sherlock's experience, even though it had been the merest meeting of mouths. This kiss exceeded it by several orders of magnitude. John was assertive but undemanding, searching but delicate, tender but nuanced. Sherlock yielded to his expertise, opening at the polite pressure against his lips, and then welcoming the soft intrusion that followed. There were so many sensations, the awakening of so many nerve endings, all needing to be cataloged: the taste of John's mouth (a trace of mint, the tannic warmth of tea, the faint salt of saliva), the ghostly waft of breath against his cheek, the tingle of John's fingers as they slid into his hair, the warmth and solidity of John's body forming a new boundary of Sherlock's own being.

When John pulled away, Sherlock tried to follow. John, chuckling under his breath, made soothing sounds as he nuzzled the corner of his mouth. The immensity of the moment must have made itself known to him, as he was still studying Sherlock closely, seemingly unaware that both thumbs were idly stroking across Sherlock's bottom lip. His cheeks glowed russet and gold, and his eyes shone blue like sapphires. He looked younger, too, as if he'd been carrying a massive weight and now it was gone. Sherlock wanted to kiss him again, but there was determination in John's eyes, in his manner, and it was apparent that he was readying himself to say something that he considered important. Sherlock waited, silently pleading with John not to leave him now, even though Sherlock had only ever caused him pain.

John dropped one hand and rubbed his arm reassuringly. "I'm a mess, Sherlock." He gently fingered his injured ribs. "Like I said, you'd be an idiot to take a chance on me. Especially now."

Relief made Sherlock tactless. "You've been a mess since I met you, John. In fact, it may be part of your charm."

"Charm." His mouth did something complicated, confusing; Sherlock couldn't read it. Disgust? Disbelief? Vexation? "Well, I can't let my charm get out of control like that again."

"I didn't mean—"

"Greg gave me a name; someone who deals with people like me. People who … Well, I've got an appointment for tomorrow."

"All right." Spooked now by John's intensity, Sherlock deemed it wise not to joke about having been called a battered spouse by three different people in the last twelve-plus hours.

"So—That's what I'm going to do. What about you?"

Sherlock's thoughts raced madly back over the last moments, their embrace, their kiss, everything John had said and, to a lesser extent, implied. In seeing a counselor, John was obliquely assuring him that he was safe from future harm. In return, he expected assurance from Sherlock about—? "Oh. I gave the last of it to Lestrade this morning."

"The last of it."

"Yes." Sherlock endured John's scouring scrutiny with some indignation. "And that was an old stash. I haven't used since before … since before Molly examined me. But you must understand—" He did not want to see John's disappointment, but he had to be honest. "You're a doctor, and you know me. You must understand that I can't just promise never to—"

"You have to."

"Be realistic, John. It's not as if—"

"You have to, Sherlock." He gave him a shake, his fingers digging into his arms. "Never again. Not for fun, not for a case, not to catch a serial killer." He gazed up at Sherlock entreatingly. "Because I'm moving back in. Me and Rosie. And I need to know—"

Sherlock's heart leapt. "I promise."

John bit his lip. "You have to mean—"

Sherlock leaned nearer, his mouth close to John's ear. "I promise."

"Okay. Yeah, okay. But, full disclosure: it won't be easy. Rosie can be a right misery guts when the mood takes her. We'll have to make the flat childproof. And the refrigerator, sanitary. And you won't be able to—"

"No," Sherlock interrupted. "I mean, yes. John, yes."

John's jaw worked, and his lips formed a severe line. "There's more."

Sherlock braced himself. "Out with it."

"First of all, she'll be sleeping in my old room."

Sherlock was already nodding, rather vigorously. "Her cot is still there. The chest of drawers. All of it. Just waiting for her."

John's hand trailed from Sherlock's arm to the middle of his chest. "State-of-the-art baby monitor connecting her room to—?"

"Every room in the flat. A dropped rattle, John, a squeak. We'll hear it."

"All right." John nodded again. "Secondly—" And again Sherlock waited for him to find the right words. It might have made Sherlock uneasy, save for the now steady touch of John's hands on him, those strong, square hands that were sworn never to hurt him again. "There's the matter of our sleeping arrangements."

"The bedroom is yours."

"Nope."

"You know I rarely sleep, John. And the sofa—"

"We're going to share your room." John raised his brows. "And not just for sleeping."

Sherlock's heart performed that little jolting thing again, and then continued to quietly hammer faster than usual. He knew the poetic significance of cardiac malfunction, but it was something that hitherto had been outside his experience. "Ah."

"I want that, with you. Have done for ages. Question is, do you?"

Sherlock felt himself color. "Very much." And then, because it seemed pertinent—and perhaps because he simply couldn't resist—he asked, "So, not not gay?"

John giggled sharply, as if taken by surprise. "Yeah?" He slowly brought a hand up to Sherlock's face and molded his fingers around his cheek. "Seeing you with Janine … I've never been so jealous in my life. And, yeah, there've been other times …" He kissed the underside of Sherlock's jaw. "But we won't—not right away." He flicked his brows again and worked his shoulders. "Whatever you're okay with." His voice dropped into a deeper range, husky and a little thick. "But when we do, it'll only be you, Sherlock. Do you understand? Just you and me. That means, if you have any objections, best to get them out in the open now."

"None." There was no hesitation in Sherlock's response. "None at all."

"You say that now. But it's going to be a big change. Rosie—well, if it wasn't impossible, I'd say she's more your daughter than mine."

"John."

John urged him into another kiss. Sherlock leaned in, his fingers sliding into John's hair, curving around to fit the idiosyncratic but perfect contours of his skull. He would forever know this skull, even flensed of flesh. Not that he would ever mention that to John—though, knowing him, the thought wouldn't disturb him at all. Sherlock would be able to have this anytime he desired. Kissing, touching. Intimacy. There was a strange fluttering in his belly. If he gave it due consideration, he could name the chemical interactions taking place, including his traitorous body's reaction to them. But none of that mattered as John deepened the kiss and Sherlock felt as though he were being taken by a rip current, drowning in sensation, in John.

John's smile was tender and a little smug as he slowly pulled back, their lips lightly clinging, reluctant to separate. He took a deep breath and his soldier's stance eased completely. "We need to go downstairs before Mrs Hudson's hip—or patience—gives out." He touched a fingertip to Sherlock's mouth and gently traced the shape of it.

Sherlock wanted to disagree. This was too new and precious, too exciting and tantalizing to stop now. "Just once more?"

Creases appeared at the corners of John's eyes as his smile widened. "Persuade me."

Sherlock brought his hands up to cradle John's head. He took his time applying kisses to his temples, his eyelids, the tip of his nose, his mouth. This strange, presumptuous act, which Sherlock had spent years avoiding, had tolerated but never enjoyed, was, with John, a thing of wonderment and stunning pleasure. To kiss him endlessly and, in the doing, ascertain what he liked best seemed the best possible gift John could have given him. It was quite evident, after a couple of moments, that there was nothing in Sherlock's novice efforts that seemed to lessen John's enthusiasm. It was only when Sherlock began a thorough exploration of the dips and whorls of John's right ear, that John, shuddering, backed a half-step away.

"We really have to go." His breathing was shallow, and he sounded winded. "Or waiting won't be an option."

"Hmm." Sherlock was in the habit of ignoring trivial concerns and, while his ribs might pose a problem, he was sure John could devise a way—

But John took hold of Sherlock's hands and kissed first one palm and then the other, while putting more space between them. "Now, Sherlock."

Grumbling, his voice like distant thunder, Sherlock allowed John to help him out of his dressing gown and into his jacket, socks, and shoes. John's hands were warm and extraordinarily gentle, and painful twinges were kept to a minimum. "All right, all right. I'm ready." Sherlock peevishly pulled at the lapels until the jacket lay to his liking.

John took Sherlock's right hand in his left one and, after placing a lingering kiss on his wrist, wove their fingers together. "Come on, then, Mr Stroppy."

They took the stairs slowly and were halfway down when Sherlock asked in a carefully bland tone, "Did you really say my name, when you and Mary—?"

John grunted and tightened his fingers. "Christ, Sherlock. Yeah, I did. It's a wonder she didn't put a bullet through my skull." He stopped in the middle of the staircase and twisted sideways to look up at him, a burn of red rising up from the base of his throat. "Promise me now: we are never talking about this again."

"As you wish. But—"

"Sherlock."

"But if you ever say her name when we're—"

John's giggle shot out of his mouth high-pitched and slightly mad-sounding. He squeezed onto the step next to Sherlock and kissed the words out of his mouth, still giggling. After a moment, he leaned back, licking his lips, his face shining with happiness. "Pretty sure you don't need to worry about that."

Sherlock stared down at him, struck mute with love and lust. "John …"

John shook his head. He caressed Sherlock's cheek with the backs of his fingers. "Later." He motioned towards the door. "Rosie's waiting."