It was a silent cab ride back to Bakerstreet as Sherlock sulked in the one corner and John watched the city pass out of the opposite window. Several times each man turned to look at the other or speak and then thought better of it. There was a great deal of huffing from one side of the cab, while the other side let out small, slow sighs. When they finally reached their destination Sherlock was out of the cab in no time flat, leaving John to scramble for the tip and bill by himself. He was lucky that they had been paid for their efforts tonight, regardless of the disaster that had unfolded.

Mrs. Hudson was in the hall when John walked in, looking up the stairs, a complete nervous wreck. John was rather impressed that even this late in the evening she was dressed properly in a skirt and hose, as well as a comparable top. It was a bit loud to say the least with the dominating floral print, but it showed that whenever they went out she worried like a mother until they returned. Not their housekeeper or their landlady; their mother hen.

"He's not even playing the violin." She noticed as the silence of the upstairs seemed to permeate into the streets and absolutely nothing made a sound. The landlady turned to look at her tenant with a hand near her mouth and an herbal soother crushed in her one palm. John said nothing, instead looking up the old and scratchy wallpaper to the second floor landing and the absence of sound that signaled something very wrong between them. Those stairs looked like a mountain, much like the first time he had ever set foot in this building, having to climb with a psychosomatic limp. He had been informed there were exactly fifteen steps including the landings, and he believed that in theory, but every time he counted he had gotten thirteen, and had wondered if the counter was simply superstitious. Then again, it was Sherlock.

"I saw a little of the action on the telly. Horrible business. I'm surprised that you caught him at all with all that ruckus. But it all worked out in the end I suppose. Should I bring you up some tea?" She asked. John said nothing, composing himself before heading for the stairs. Mrs. Hudson backed away, allowing him through and scurrying back to her apartment, muttering about a domestic.

When John reached the top of the stairs he nearly fell back down them again. Sherlock was cleaning. He was walking about moving things into boxes, his face completely stoic.

"You really think he'll get off on the charges? Should we be worried about our lives?" The doctor asked of his friend. John was still trying to get used to the fact that he was calling this man his friend after only a few weeks, but he couldn't help the thought. He shook his head for a moment and went to help the detective, when he realized it was his own things Sherlock was packing away.

"Hey now, what's this about?" He asked, receiving silence. John walked forward into the room some more, watching Sherlock move about and pick up only the things he designated as John's; the books he had bought to read while waiting for a murder to turn up, the medical papers that John needed for work, the dishes he had bought to eat from when he first moved in because he didn't trust anything Sherlock had in the cupboard. At a particular turn John caught the brunet by the wrists, receiving a light struggle and a growl.

"Collect your things. Get out." Sherlock demanded, trying to wrench his hands free as he snarled at his flat mate. John let go of him.

"Is this because I sabotaged your precious little plan?" John asked, standing taller as he became angrier. "I couldn't have known what I was looking for since you hadn't told me. This is why I constantly tell you that we need to call Lestrade when you get a lead. But no, you would rather take all the glory for yourself! You can't fathom for a moment that anyone is competent enough to put up with your master plans!"

"I thought you were shot!" Sherlock roared, dropping the book and bowl he was holding, milk and cereal scattering about the carpet. At first John was too confused to speak.

"What?"

"He had a gun." Sherlock said, placing steeped fingers against his forehead and then his lips as he closed his eyes for a moment and composed himself. He looked at John who was completely confused for a moment, unsure as to why that was relevant. He knew that a gun had gone off at the crime scene, amid his valiant attempt to tackle the wrong man and save the day. Things had been difficult before, even dangerous, but he had shot a man for Sherlock's sake; why would a suspect having a gun be a problem? The detective could see that his roommate didn't understand, so with a deep sigh he began to explain.

"The suspect, he had a gun, and when you tackled that other man he knew you were looking for him and he drew his weapon and was aiming for your back, and…" Sherlock hesitated for a moment before continuing. "I tried to stop him, I got there in enough time to disrupt his aim, but he still fired, and I was… unsure if he…" Those calculating blue eyes traced all of John's body, examining his cloths for bullet holes and blood one more time. John squirmed under such a gaze, but it also changed his view of the savant in front of him. He did have emotions. He actually cared.

"Sherlock, you know I've been shot before." John reminded him, his stance mimicking that soldier posture he had held for so many years. The detective across from him shook his head.

"That was in the military. This is civilian life, and as much as I know you need the hunt and the warzone, I just put your life in danger. I can't be responsible for you all the time." He said, bending to pick up the bowl and book once more. "You don't deserve to be killed in this warzone."

"Then teach me." John demanded, speaking without thinking. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, righting himself again, staring at the objects now in his possession.

"No."

"Teach me."

"No, it's too dangerous."

"If inconvenient come anyway." The detective looked up into the eyes of the soldier, their gaze holding for just enough time that in theory they could convey their entire soul and history to the other, but instead they simply broke apart and shifted their eyes to the right.

"Are you sure you wish to learn my methods? It is not easy." Sherlock speculated. "You might make a proper fool of yourself trying." John nodded, realized his friend wasn't looking at him, and then spoke.

"Yes, well, foolishness aside, I'll need it, won't I? If I have to keep babysitting you every time you go out of the house, I'd best know what you're thinking so I can prepare for it. Not like you can take care of yourself now, is it?" Sherlock went to speak, and John raised a hand defensively.

"No. I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. I want to be here and I want you to teach me how to do what you do." He gave the aura of a parent making it final, and for some reason the detective across from him squirmed as if he was uncomfortable with the decision. He was silent for a little while, calculating risks and advantages and ways to persuade John differently no doubt, when his body finally relaxed.

"Very well then. We start in the morning. At breakfast." The brunet turned to put the things he was holding back on the table and took up his violin. "Don't say I didn't warn you though. I'll not tolerate failure." The soldier nodded, a small smile gracing his face as he proved his worth to his fiend.

"Cuppa?" John asked, and was answered with the opening cords of something a little fast and a slight bit cheerful, assuming that was a yes.