John Watson filled his mouth with sultry, pungent tea, and did his best to ignore the wall. The yellow smiley had half its face missing, and the wall peeled open into a full view of Sherlock's bedroom, piled with indiscriminate mess set off by the man himself's snoring, pale, butt naked body sprawled over the bed.

Captain John Watson was more than used to a lack of privacy. He knew how to keep his eyes to himself. He'd fought for many governments, but in the legions of the first one, even unintentional nosiness could get you knocked into your next regeneration, if you had one. It was one place in which not being a Time Lord came in handy and even spared him a few painful deaths. That was what he had liked about the army - even on Earth. It was a place where the ordinary were valued. Rules were followed, too. One of which was to keep your eyes down while in the barracks.

Which is why he was letting the rich depths of his tea absorb all his attention, not sparing a glance for the spectacle just tantalizingly half out of view. Sherlock was someone he cared about, of course he knew that - in fact, he was proud of it. But he was human - an animal. There was no excuse for tempting a creature hardly more developed than the monkey it evolved from. No matter how gifted, how extraordinary, how very much like a Gallifreyan he thought and acted, he was still only human. So John kept his eyes front.

The deep, uninterrupted sleep starting at dusk, deepening, melding with dreams, richening with a dark bass of unconsciousness throughout the night, climaxing with a tremendous, clarion burst of REM and slowly, gently softening with the dawn into a light, comfy dozing that lasted hours on end and only sluggishly gave way to a swaddled wakening and a desire for tea with honey in it past ten in the morning - this was a rare and secretly welcome, if sometimes unwillingly accepted, treat for Sherlock. John usually tried to keep out of the human detective's bad habits beyond making sure he stayed relatively healthy, but after a case as exhausting as the one they had just tackled, the alien doctor had taken the liberty of surreptitiously using some less-than-legally acquired off-Earth medicine in Sherlock's evening tea. He had been sleeping for more than twelve hours now. John had begun taking constant notice of his breathing, just in case he somehow got the dosage wrong.

The idea that he still took precautions like that would have caused generations of young Gallifreyan cadets and more than a few human subordinates to burst into nervous giggles. Captain John Watson didn't make mistakes, not on the battlefield or in the baracks, the green of Afghanistan knew. Literal centuries of army recruits on his home planet, though they didn't use the term green, knew the same thing about the esteemed Army General Watson. He was good. He was Gallifrey's finest and England's best. He had risen through the ranks in every army he'd fought in, usually starting at grunt work and picking up an officer's title in a year or two on average. And he had fought for many armies. He could kill most species with anything he had on hand, even something ridiculously harmless, like a Post-It note. And he could heal most species back from what lesser doctors would call death using whatever was nearby, from mud to lasers. He was a leader and a fighter, quick and resourceful and loyal and brave. But most of all, he was patient.

Watson was his name; Army General his title on Gallifrey. His race had a thing for redundant titles. Watson remained a useful name throughout his travels, but he'd begun using it as a "sur name," an odd tradition to mark familial ties on many primitive planets. And so he'd also picked up the "first name" John. It would have horrified the sedate, prim, stolid society of his home to know that he'd borrowed it admiringly from none other than John Smith, the code name for a man whom Watson's parents and their friends had always referred to as "You-Know-Who."

John sipped absentmindedly at the dregs of his tea. He had blessedly forgotten the view through the wall, so wrapped up was he in his own reminiscing. He was staring off into the distance, tea mug drooping in his hand and dripping cold tea onto his khakis, one finger of the other hand drumming out a beat he remembered all too well, when Sherlock coughed behind him.

His reaction was the reaction of battle-hardened Watson, not jumper-wearing civilian John, and it was instant. It took him a second to realize that the man he was currently restraining by his neck and stomach was Sherlock.

He slowly released him, shaking with the knowledge of how close he'd been, how little motion it would have taken to snap the intelligent human's neck. He shoved his hands in his pocket to hide their trembling. One move, one second longer of being convinced he was back in the war, and his best friend would be dead.

His best friend. It was true. It didn't matter if he was an animal. John deeply cared for this special, fragile, ever so slightly unstable human genius balanced between blessed and cursed on a seesaw built out of depression, drugs, and long lines of solved cases, saved lives, and people in his debt.

He cast his eyes down and forced himself to smile. "Sorry about that. You, uh, scared me. Soldier's instinct, I guess. You never quite get rid of it." He turned away so Sherlock wouldn't see the redness in his eyes. "I'll make you a cuppa. How did you sleep?"

Sherlock stayed very, deliberately still as John recovered his senses, aware of the hard, corded arm around his throat. He could identify the exact angle his neck would need to be in for John to break it, and he was close enough to that angle now to make it unwise to struggle. Anything that would simulate battle, drive John further into the nightmare he was in, was a very, very bad idea.

When the doctor let him go, embarrassment and shame on his face, the detective analyzed him thoroughly. Didn't sleep last night. Has already drunk 4 and a half cups of tea due to stress. Has talked to Mrs. Hudson already this morning, if his left wrist is anything to go by. Shaved hastily because he felt it necessary to guard me while I slept. There was a disturbance during the night involving a mugging outside, and he got the victim to the hospital. The girl - obviously a girl 14-17 years of age, look at the level of wear on the crooks of his jumper's elbows - was seriously injured. The whole incident reminded him of Afghanistan, and he is now suffering for it.

Sherlock always analyzed John every morning when they both woke up. It was his way of looking after him. John didn't mind. Not noticing was the same thing as not minding, right? And after the way he had been rudely accosted, John deserved it. He massaged his throat.

He felt almost immediately badly when John hid the fact that he was obviously attempting to hold back tears. Sherlock heard his last question and quickly made the connection that hearing about the taller, handsomer man's rest would make John happy and break the awkwardness of his stress, thus relieving Sherlock of the need to attempt comfort. "I slept extremely well. It's been a very long time since I've slept that long or that deeply. I feel quite refreshed."

John's anxiety melted into a marginally suppressed happy smile. Sherlock's heart warmed, until he saw how John had cut his fingernails in conjunction with how he was covering his mouth.

The great consulting detective's mouth dropped open, a rare sight. "You drugged me!"

John gaped at him - not an innocent gape, but a how-could-you-possibly-know-that gape. He recovered himself and took a gulp of Sherlock's tea. "Of course not. I would never do such a thing. You're still half asleep." His face was controlled, but the corners of his mouth were twitching.

Sherlock pressed, knowing full well he was right. "What did you use? I slept over twelve hours. Me. You were in danger at least once last night, probably because of the two muggers whom you fought at about 11:00 last night. What if you had needed me?"

John's lips thinned. "I didn't need you."

"You always need me," he hissed, slumping.

John laughed a slight, bitter laugh. "I need you? Let me remind you -"

"Oh, dear, are we having a little domestic?" a bleating voice plainted from the doorway.

Both men turned around, Sherlock pulling his robe tighter shut, to see Mrs. Hudson's goatish face peeping around the corner. "I know how it can be," she bleated. "Me and my husband were always like that. Every little thing turned into a tiff."

John cleared his throat. "Still not gay," he reminded everyone futilely. Or attracted to humans, he added in his head.

Sherlock faked a smile. "Mrs. Hudson, isn't it time for your morning soother?" the detective said derisively. And he got up and closed the door on her, ignoring her stutters and squalls.

Sherlock and John looked at each other. John snorted first.

Sherlock barely held in a chuckle.

They both burst into laughter.

The rest of the morning passed as smoothly as a morning at 221B Baker Street could. Sherlock pressed for details about last night's mugging, John artfully dodged, and Sherlock switched tactics and complained loudly about sleeping pills. John shut him up with a well-made mug of tea, and they passed the time until Mycroft Holmes burst in, panting and leaning heavily on his umbrella. His normal disdainful calm was cracked with a look of... something, as he gestured wildly, gasping for air.

John rose to his feet. Sherlock's head snapped up and he stared at his brother in amazement. Mycroft looked helplessly at John, unable to speak, but waving around the thick case file he had in his hands. The doctor helped him to a chair and gestured for him to sit down. Mycroft shook his head.

"Sit down," John said soothingly, hiding his shock at this sudden change.

"I have to talk to Sherlock," the older man managed to gasp out.

"Sit down," John repeated, using his most calming tone salted with a little bit of good old fashioned Gallifreyan hypnosis.

Mycroft blinked and sat down. The minute he did, he seemed to relax and took a few deep breaths.

"When you're ready," Dr. Watson warned.

The government official quickly recovered and looked up, directly at Sherlock. "You have to get out of here," he said sharply.

Sherlock, for once, was neither derisive nor dismissive. "Why?" he asked seriously. Seeing his brother like this had shaken him.

"I have intelligence that this flat will be targeted by a small terrorist cell operating in the heart of London. In any normal circumstances, I would simply thwart the plot. However, these people are a special case. They used to be under the thumb of Moriarty, like most of the criminal activity in England, but something happened. Sources have been unable to tell what. Every time I send in an agent, they disappear. There's no body, no threats, only silence. One thing, however, is very clear. Whatever separated this cell from the network, Moriarty has done nothing to recapture their loyalties. Intelligence from within Moriarty's network indicates he is afraid to do so."

Sherlock and John gaped at Mycroft with identical looks of incredulity. Sherlock quickly steepled his fingers and began to think, while John burst out into a stream of questions.

Mycroft, now fully recovered, held up a hand to stop both of them. John closed his mouth. "My agents have set up a safe house and will be arriving to relocate you at any moment. Take this time to gather whatever you don't wish to be destroyed. The bombs may already be planted."

Sherlock's attention came back to reality. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"Who?"

"Mrs. Hudson." Irritation crept into his voice. "The landlady."

Mycroft blinked. "Oh." From the moment he had recieved the intelligence "bombs at Baker Street," he honestly hadn't thought beyond his brother's safety. "Well..."

The door burst open, and several plainclothes government agents walked in. "I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but we have to go now," the lead agent urged. "No one is safe here."

Mrs. Hudson appeared, bobbing behind the agents. "Oh, Sherlock, the mess all these people have made!" she bleated. "I couldn't stop them going in. They said something about -"

Sherlock made eye contact with John. The doctor nodded and, striding over, took Mrs. Hudson by the arm while Sherlock started shoving things into a randomly open suitcase. "No experiments," he called over his shoulder. "Only essentials."

Sherlock made a noise of protest, somewhere along the lines of "You act as though the two categories are incapable of overlapping," but John was already out the door, shushing Mrs. Hudson and explaining briefly why they had to leave.

"But my flats!" Mrs. Hudson bleated. "How am I supposed to live?" John consoled her as he urged her towards the unmarked car.

Sherlock glanced up from stuffing his Union Jack pillow, a box of nicotine patches and one very low-key experiment into the suitcase and saw his brother's stressed and worried face. Hasn't slept, ran up the stairs, hired agents he could trust but had to pay quite a bit extra. He bit his lip. Every so often the consulting detective had to confront the fact that Mycroft actually did care for him. It was the curse of being so intelligent. Still, he felt duty-bound to say something. "Thank you," he muttered out.

Mycroft's eyebrows raised.

"You needn't act so surprised," the younger man growled, throwing John's extra jumpers in with the half-full tea kettle. "You did just save my life."

"That never seemed to merit a thanks before," Mycroft commented. "Could it be that a certain doctor is rubbing off on you?"

Sherlock glared, and zipped up the suitcase with an air of finality. "Could it be that you are jealous of my friendship with John?"

Mycrfot reacted with a flinch, a movement that would have startled Sherlock had he not been already marching down the stairs to join his friend, off on yet another adventure.