A/N: This is a three part continuation of my story Shooter. All this takes place in the Shooter!verse, so you should probably read that before this. It should make sense without reading it, but some bits might make you go 'dafuq?' So better safe than sorry! Anyway, please review and let me know your thoughts. I appreciate any and all feedback.

NOTE: This is unbeta'd and not Britpicked. If anyone wants to try their hand, feel free.

North of Normal

Written by Amputation

1/3 - Of Fragrant Tea and Bizarre Détentes

Sometimes John wondered what their reunion would be like. When he had downtime between running an elusive MI5 (ahem, MI6) surgery and tailing his estranged flat mate all across the globe, he quite enjoyed his little flights of fantasy. Most of his imaginings were horribly clichéd and overly romanticised daydreams where Sherlock would appear dramatically as a shadow in the sitting room of 221B, usually in the midst of a thunderstorm with the damned Belstaff fluttering behind him like a flag in the wind. There would be a long monologue that would inevitably lead to tears and fumbled declarations of love that culminated in fiery, passionate lovemaking. It was like something out of a harlequin romance novel (not that John read those, nope definitely not) and so ridiculous it actually made him laugh rather than pine for Sherlock.

His flights of fancy were preposterous, and John knew that such a reunion would never happen. He was a soldier, a doctor. He'd been running all over creation to assassinate malicious people connected by the strings of Moriarty's web and saving the lives of a multitude of the government's agents, all while assisting New Scotland Yard on the side whenever Greg called for a fresh perspective. No, John definitely wasn't some love-struck teenager with raging hormones and not a whit of sense. The past three years had done nothing but harden his shell even further, and the squishy, cuddly centre remained buried deep. Sherlock certainly didn't harbour the same feelings of affection and love John did, and even so it would be dangerous to take a leap towards a potential relationship without calculated planning.

John was — if nothing else — a strategist. He enjoyed coming up with countless possibilities to solve a problem, often with multitudes of writing and rewriting plans in his head. It was what made him such an excellent assassin. Sometimes he wondered about the local authorities standing around the body of a criminal he'd put there, discussing the "mysterious killer's" modus operandi and conducting an investigation. Not that they'd ever find him; not when he had excellently executed plans to cover his back and Mycroft to obliterate whatever tracks remained. His love of strategic thinking was one of the reasons he so enjoyed working with Sherlock in the first place; he adored coming up with tactics for taking down a murderer or other shady sort. Granted, the consulting detective didn't oft ask his opinions on the matter, but it was a great brain exercise regardless. It kept him sharp and clear-headed. He had a feeling that after the past three years, his strategies would be even sharper and more eloquent than ever. Thinking on the run, now that was good old fashioned euphoria.

John yawned loudly as he started down the stairs, scratching absently at the moustache he'd taken to growing over the past few months. After that one slip up in Germany, he'd taken to altering his appearance slightly every eight weeks or so. It was never dramatic enough to alert the people who didn't know of his circumstances but was always enough to fool anyone else. It worked sufficiently well. The few times John found assassins in the flat, it usually left him cleaning out bloodstains on the carpet. Again. Mycroft never stopped the attempts on his life. The bloody prat knew John loved the challenge: the ridiculous adrenaline rush that came with finding an assassin in his flat and then subsequently destroying them. No, that was an unspoken agreement between himself and the elder Holmes. He and the British Government had come to a quiet camaraderie over the past three years on the subject of John's endangerment. He quite liked that.

He shook himself from his sleep dampened state and shuffled into the kitchen, putting on the kettle and grabbing yesterday's paper. He shoved it into the pocket of the Derek Rose dressing gown he'd bought with his first pay cheque from Mycroft. It was a deep navy trimmed in gray, the entire thing a beautiful silk creation matching the elegance of Sherlock's own dressing gowns. John thought himself mighty posh in it. He bustled about the kitchen, putting tea leaves in the teapot while the water heated and humming off-key under his breath. John liked the placidity of the mornings, the lethargy he exuded appearing on all counts to be completely sleep-fuzzed. In all actuality, John was wide awake. The ever-present weight of his Browning slipped into the waistband of his pyjamas pressed comfortably against his spine, and the slightest threat would trigger his shift from docile, sleepy creature into a deadly force of nature.

The kettle whistled and he set about steeping his tea, grabbing his RAMC mug and twirling it absently in his hands. John smothered another lazy yawn and peered at the front page of the paper he'd shoved in his dressing gown's pocket. Mrs Hudson was a saint, truly, for bringing it up when he was out yesterday. (One of Mycroft's agents managed to get nearly disembowelled. He'd fixed it.) As his eyes lazily skimmed over some of the dull, monotonous news he leaned against the wall and rolled his shoulders with a low pop. He sighed, wrinkling his nose at the newsprint. Boring! Nothing ever seemed to happen when he was home in London. As much as he loved the flat and the city, sometimes John craved the insanity of saving the life of an MI5 (read: MI6) agent or shooting a criminal from insane distances or smashing in the skull of a would-be assassin. Not-so-secretly, John loved pressure, danger.

Folding up the paper, John poured the steeped tea into his mug, adding a splash of milk and spot of honey simply because he could before shuffling to his armchair. Dropping into it unceremoniously, he settled back and buried his nose in the fragrant steam. This was one of his favourite blends, a combination of Earl Grey black and Earl Grey green with just a touch of cinnamon. The scent was warm and homey and reminded him of good times in 221B. He'd tasted something like it on an assassination escapade in Bangladesh and had simply become addicted. He shut his eyes and inhaled deeply, relaxing into the softness of his armchair. He raised the mug to his lips, breathing in deeply and indulging... but before he could take a sip, there was a particularly loud knock from downstairs.

'Bloody —!' John glared at the door, growling. He had no desire to trudge down those seventeen steps to bark at some poor sod who didn't know to leave John alone when he was partaking in his tea. Raising the mug to his lips again, he shut his eyes and took a long first sip, sighed with pleasure as the hot liquid trailed down his throat, settling comfortably in his stomach. Oh, yes — the knock persisted a second time. Grumbling loudly, John stood up, set down his mug on the coffee table, and flung open the door to the flat. He was not happy. Whoever was at the front door had best have a damn good reason for interrupting his tea time. Storming down the stairs, John channelled his inner consulting-five-year-old and silently whinged about the injustice of Mrs Hudson being out so she couldn't get the door for him. He heard her voice in his head, "not your housekeeper, dear!" and smiled despite his grumpiness.

The brief fondness for Mrs H faded immediately when yet another knock resounded from the door, this one louder and slightly more aggressive than the last two. Scowling, John cranked open the deadbolt and glared, squinting out into the bright intensity of the outdoors.

John blinked rapidly to adjust his eyes to the brightness of the day, 'For the love of god, what do you want? If you're trying to sell me something, you can just bugger off — '

'John.'

With a click of his jaw, the man in question stared out at the figure on the doorstep, watching as his eyes adjusted. Oh. It was him. Huh. He didn't look half bad, for dressing in what constituted as rags. Sherlock stood there in a pair of ratty jeans, a grungy looking black jumper, and a pair of beat-to-shite Chuck Taylors. He really didn't look well, those ridiculous cheekbones highlighting his sallow complexion more than usual, but then again John knew of the detective's condition already. He'd followed the blasted man for nearly three years; the decline in Sherlock's health was not a surprise. John blinked lazily, musing on whether it would be worth it to just punch the skinny twat on his doorstep. Sherlock looked like a kicked puppy and John felt a spike of indignation rise. How dare he get to stand there and look helpless when John wanted to sock him one. A vein jumped against his temporal bone. Oh, fuck it, kicked puppy or not — John stepped closer and with a practiced speed he knew the taller man couldn't match, decked the twat right on the cheekbone.

It was with great satisfaction that he watched the consulting detective stagger backward before he simply fell onto his arse. John straightened his shoulders and offered a soldierly nod before turning sharply on his heel and marching upstairs. He left the front door open, knowing Sherlock wasn't stupid enough to ignore the obvious invitation. John strode confidently around the kitchen, preparing another mug of tea in celebration of his idiot flat mate finally returning home. His insight on the open invitation was proven correct when he heard the familiar but skittish stride of Sherlock on the stairs.

John turned around, a mug of tea in his hands, sweetened with a good dollop of honey and milk exactly like he knew Sherlock liked it. The consulting detective hovered in the main doorway of the flat with a distinctly awkward air about him. He wasn't his usual confident self, probably because the prat hadn't expected to be punched in the face and yet still be invited inside. John watched patiently as Sherlock's ever-observant eyes gazed over the unchanged sitting room, glazed slightly in obvious nostalgia. It all faded in a matter of milliseconds when those mercurial irises locked onto the nearly-invisible bloodstains on the carpet. Bollocks. That meant he'd have to clean them. Again.

'John, I — ' Sherlock started to say as he finally stepped into the flat, his eyebrows furrowed as he turned his gaze from the carpet to the doctor.

'It's not mine, if that's what you're worried about,' John commented calmly, walking over to the dishevelled detective. It was so bizarre seeing him look so out of place in their sitting room. John fought down the urge to ruffle the detective's excessively shaggy curls.

Sherlock's brow furrowed further, 'How is it not yours? Clearly you haven't had company much less injured company, judging by the state of the flat. It hardly seems lived in,' he stated, walking over to where the blood had been spattered beside the sofa and cluttered coffee table. While it was true, the flat was remarkably devoid of constant life, the blood still wasn't John's, 'and yet this can't be more than — ' Sherlock continued.

'It just isn't, Sherlock. Leave it,' John interrupted the detective's deductions, shoving the mug into Sherlock's suddenly shaking hands.

'John, I wanted to say I — I'm sorr — '

'I know,' the doctor interrupted placidly as he settled into his armchair, swivelling to face the sofa, 'now sit and drink your tea.' John hadn't wanted to hear an apology from Sherlock, not yet. He had to make the man understand how stupid he'd been and wasn't going to accept those two words until comprehension dawned in those annoyingly fascinating eyes.

Said eyes widened comically at John's barked order and he sat back onto the sofa with a whump, limbs flailing slightly. Self-satisfaction bubbled up in his chest and he held back the smirk that accompanied it. Sherlock never could resist the 'Army John' voice, not since John had noticed the detective's reaction back at Baskerville. The ex-soldier watched as the consulting detective sipped his tea tentatively, feeling another burst of satisfaction when Sherlock let out a low, near-imperceptible hum of approval. John retrieved his own mug and sipped his cooler tea. For a time, 221B Baker Street was silent, but the air was charged and tense. It wouldn't last long, John was certain of it.

'John, I had to,' Sherlock finally interjected, clutching his mug in white fingers.

The doctor peered calmly over the lip of his mug at the man who couldn't meet his eyes, arching a brow, 'I know.'

Sherlock started, clearly surprised at the response, 'You knew. How did you know?'

John smiled, 'Deduce it yourself, Sherlock,' he replied, gazing fondly at his oblivious flat mate and relishing in the multitude of different emotions flickering subtly across the younger man's face.

'You aren't angry?' Verdigris eyes shifted up, locking into deep blue. Childish confusion and hope stared back. John smiled again, amused.

'Oh, I'm furious.'

'And you punched me,' Sherlock furrowed his brow again, 'even though you knew I had to disappear. Why?'

'I punched you, you prat, because you deserved it.'

The detective's shoulders slumped just slightly, but John caught the tiny motion and felt slightly guilty for making the younger man question himself. He felt the need to clarify.

'I mourned you, Sherlock. I was a miserable wreck! Do you have any idea how much my life revolved around you?' he asked with a heavy sigh, 'I lost my job at the surgery because I couldn't bring myself to leave the flat for months and my limp came back, too. It was devastating, Sherlock, so imagine my surprise when I realise you're still alive.'

Wild eyes snapped up to stare at John, 'But how did you know? It was executed perfectly!' Sherlock's eyes glazed while he tried to find a flaw in his plans, 'Did Molly slip up? Of course it had to be Molly...'

'Give the poor girl some credit, you arse. She never slipped up. I at least know how to catch someone lying after living with you for eighteen months. I'm not stupid, contrary to your persistent remarks.'

'John, you're not — '

'Sherlock, don't even go there,' John snorted, interrupting his flat mate mid sentence and taking a long sip of his tea. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, 'just tell me why you couldn't take me with you?'

John could practically hear the tightening of fingers on ceramic and the fidgeting of lanky limbs on the sofa cushions. The question he'd asked was one he'd had from the moment he'd caught Mycroft lying to him. He wanted an honest answer.

'I — He — ,' Sherlock seemed to be fighting for words and John could see the frustration flashing in his eyes, hindered only by bursts of regret, 'John, he had snipers waiting. I-I had to die or you and Lestrade and Mrs Hudson would be shot,' he blurted out, his lanky form twitchy and awkward. Clearly the younger man felt cornered, and John realised he needed to placate his flat mate.

'I know that.'

Sherlock continued as though he hadn't heard John's quiet admission, 'I'd managed to plan something up with Molly and Myc — Wait, what?' Ah, it seemed he'd finally caught that. The doctor managed a smile from over the lip of his mug.

'I know why you had to jump, Sherlock. I killed the snipers myself,' John admitted, staring down into the caramel coloured tea in his mug, 'When I understood what had happened, I definitely wasn't going to let anything happen to the people you're fond of while you were away.'

John risked a glance at the silent consulting detective, finding the younger man completely enrapt in what John was saying. He took it as a sign to continue.

'They'd hung around you know,' he muttered, taking another sip of tea, 'Terrible business, that. They should have known I'd find them all quickly,' he sighed, resting his mug in his lap, staring down at it as his fingers tightened on the ceramic, 'I hate being underestimated, although admittedly sometimes it's a great advantage.'

'You killed them, then.' It wasn't a question and John met his best friend's eyes, unflinching.

'Of course I did. I don't like snipers skulking around my mates, and definitely not the few people my estranged flat mate actually finds tolerable.'

Sherlock leaned back against the sofa, staring into his tea mug for a long moment before taking another sip. John noticed the tremor in the man's hands as he drank. He needed to placate the detective before he worked himself up into a tizzy.

'I just wish you'd had the sense to tell me you were still alive in person,' John said softly, leaning forward in his chair towards the younger man, 'I would have come with you on your mission without question.'

Sherlock looked up, the shaking vanished. Mercury met midnight and the detective breathed out 'You know everything, then.'

'Yes.'

John kept his gaze on his flat mate, and they stared at each other for a long moment. The stress of the past three years was clearly etched onto the detective's face, and John found himself unable to resist cataloguing every new subtle line and wrinkle. The man had gained those marks trying to protect John, and therefore were precious proof of the younger man's (albeit bizarre) affection. Sherlock broke the contact first, a surprisingly submissive move for the consulting detective. John leaned back in his armchair and finished his tea, setting his mug down with a ceramic click. He might as well explain himself.

'Mycroft was the one who slipped, and even then it took a few weeks. I demanded to know everything when I figured it out and he obliged.'

'Of course he did,' Sherlock growled, 'he can't leave me well enough alone! Obvious that he'd slip up, really, too concerned about me without reason. He's always sticking his fat nose into my business.'

'He funded you, you prat. Be grateful,' John hid a smile.

Sherlock grumbled, but didn't refute John's comment, 'He had me shadowed everywhere, John. It was unbearable.'

'He had you shadowed?' He wondered if his flat mate had any idea that it hadn't been an MI5 (or MI6 for that matter) agent that followed everywhere. Only one person was allowed that honour, he thought smugly.

'Yes! Some assassin,' the younger man spat the word like it was foul, 'was always sneaking about and shooting men I was supposed to be eliminating.'

'Ah,' John said, feeling the nausea bubble up at the thought of Sherlock killing anyone, 'Well, good on him, then,' he nodded.

'Pardon?'

John allowed a tiny smile, 'I'm glad you didn't get to murder anyone,' he clarified, gazing pointedly at his flat mate.

Sherlock blinked, confusion and then something softer passing through his bright eyes, 'Why? What would it matter? Dead is dead.'

'Because, Sherlock, you were never the killer, even if Anderson and Donovan believe that to be the case,' he replied softly, 'I'm glad you didn't get to prove them right.'

Silence reigned supreme and John allowed a flicker of amused glee to pass through his mind even as he kept his face schooled to neutral. Sherlock had obviously caught the subtext in what John had said. It seemed Sherlock finally understood why his "shadow" was so persistent in killing his enemies for him.

'You,' the detective breathed, surprised as he leaned forward in the sofa, 'you were the assassin.'

John smiled, but didn't offer a confirmation.

'Mycroft put you up to it, didn't he," Sherlock scowled, leaping up from the couch and pacing by the coffee table, 'I should have known he'd drag you into this! I was supposed to keep you safe and that cake-devouring moron threw you into the middle of it all!' John recognised the activity, the snarling tone and knew his flat mate was seconds away from a fiery rage. He needed to smother it before it combusted.

'Mycroft didn't put me up to anything. I volunteered,' he placated.

Sherlock stopped pacing, pausing and turning his head to John. Eyebrows furrowed and a need to know flickered through the molten gaze, 'Why?'

'To keep you safe, you idiot,' John laughed, 'bad enough you engage murderers to prove you're clever, but dismantling an entire crime syndicate on your own? Really, Sherlock, I'd have thought you were smarter than that.'

Sherlock blinked and sat back against the sofa, his lips twitching upwards into a ghost of a smile.

'My dear Watson, will you never cease to surprise me?'

John grinned, 'Oh, god, I hope not.'