I don't own Sherlock... or Wanted. I did warn there would be another piece with this crossover... though it was nothing to do with the other one, and once again, you need not have watched the movie. (It's from 2008, main characters played by James McAvoy and Angelina Jolie, in case you're interested).

Sorry I'm late, I forgot I was supposed to post this last night.

I have no beta, and am not British, please forgive any mistakes.

Fate's Favor

"I was so alone... and I owe you so much." JW

John was sitting behind the desk in his small office in the practice where he worked. Sarah, his boss (and ex-girlfriend), had left almost an hour earlier. He'd stayed behind with the excuse of having some paperwork to finish, though that wasn't true (and he'd a feeling Sarah might have known that too). It was almost funny, how for so many years he'd worked part-time every other day, and even day there was always the chance that he would be late, have to leave early or simply not arrive at all because of one of Sherlock's cases. That had all changed in that he was working full shifts, seven days a week, and he took every excuse to stay late even. Every excuse not to have to go home... Or no, not home, because that house in the suburbs wasn't home, and it would never be. Home was 221B Baker Street, home was the flat he rented to Mrs. Hudson, home was Sherlock... but Sherlock was gone, and there was no more home.

It'd been almost five months since Sherlock had left for that MI6 undercover mission in Eastern Europe. A mission that was supposed to last for six months... And as much as John wanted to be positive, to think that the consulting detective would crack the case and, against everyone else's expectations would find a way to return to London, to return to John... the blonde man was no fool. He'd been MI6 himself, for a few years. He could detect a suicide mission when he saw one; and Eastern Europe was most definitely a suicide mission.

He had put some feelers out. Some people from Sherlock's homeless network whom John had helped by giving them medical attention for free and without questions; as well as old friends from both his days in the army and in intelligence. He knew Sherlock had been sent to infiltrate a highly dangerous terrorist cell, who were believed to be planning a big hit against the UK in the near-future. He knew the plan was for a team of elite agents, most likely lead by one or two 00s to be sent in to take down the organization as soon as they had enough information. He also knew enough of that kind of operations to knew the assault wouldn't even be planned until they could get no more information, until Sherlock could get them nothing more (most likely because he'd been made); and by then it would be too late for him. The odds weren't good.

That was why John hated so much even the thought of going back to that house in the suburbs every night, with his wife. The wife who'd given him a stillborn baby-girl just eight weeks earlier... a little-one he never got to hold... and then she had the gall to say that it was somehow his fault their child died. The same wife who lied to him, who'd cheated on him, who'd shot his best-friend dead... Because she'd shot him, in the vena cava, and Sherlock had died, his heart had stopped beating, the doctors had given up on him! That by some amazing miracle the consulting detective had managed to drag himself back to life did not change the fact that Mary, or whatever her real name might be, had killed him.

John had never wanted anything less than he'd wanted to forgive Mary (AGRA). But Sherlock had convinced him, reminding him how many times he'd insisted on wanting a normal life. And when even that hadn't worked, he'd reminded him of his daughter, of the baby who would need him (because what kind of father would he be if he left his child to grow with only a 'former' assassin for a parent?). That had all been pointless in the end. He was left with no daughter, and no best friend... if only John had known what Sherlock would do...

Because of course Sherlock would throw himself over his own sword (metaphorically) in an attempt to make sure John would be happy, would have his family... and how couldn't Sherlock, genius that he was, ever realize that there was no happiness for John without him? That there simply was no John Watson without Sherlock Holmes?

So the doctor had made it a point to stay away from that house and that woman, more and more in the weeks since Minna...

John was pushed into sharp focus as he became abruptly aware of the fact that he was no longer alone. His hand moved instinctively to the concealed gun underneath the edge of his desk, yet he stopped before he actually reached it, knowing there was no point. So instead he sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath:

"Has my name come up?" He asked quite calmly.

There was no verbal answer, but John could clearly see the moment the man, baby-blue eyes, messy chocolate hair, around thirty years old, in a white wifebeater, washed-out jeans, light blue-gray and combat boots, stepped into the room. He could also see the man wasn't alone, there was one, probably two others behind him.

"No." John continued after a second. "No, if my name had come up I would already be dead, would never have even seen you... who then?"

"Alicia Gisele Reyna Addams." The young man stated in a solemn tone as he read the name from a piece of paper in his hand.

"I'm sorry, I've never heard that name." John admitted after thinking about it for a moment.

"Not surprising." The voice of a second man, older, though in a somewhat similar style to that of the younger one, stated. "I believe she goes by Mary Elisabeth Morstan nowadays..."

John had to admit that a good deal of him wasn't that surprised to find out that Mary, or Alicia, as her name appeared to be (and he remembered clearly when she'd added Alice as their stillborn baby's middle-name), had had her name come up. She was an assassin, so it was only to be expected. What John could have never imagined was everything else his three uninvited guests had to tell him.

There was no more Fraternity, or at least not beyond the three of them. Wesley, his father Allen and his lover Fox were the only surviving members of the organization. At least those who still followed the old rules. There were those who had allowed themselves to be corrupted, to kill for money or enjoyment rather than to protect others, and because of that, the three remaining Fraternity members were hunting them all down. They were almost done in fact. According to what they believed, Alicia was the last true assassin (there might be a few others, lesser men and women who'd been only partially involved with the organization, but no one truly dangerous).

They'd been hunting her all the way from Chicago for the last six years or so. They'd actually lost her for a while, until Wesley had hacked into hospital records and found a report of a man who'd been shot in the vena cava... apparently that was her signature, a gun-shot that was sure to kill the victim, while still being able to make it seem like a lucky shot... and to think that Sherlock had tried to convince John that Mary was saving him...

The Fraternity had once been an organization devoted to 'killing one to save a thousand'; it was believed that Fate itself gave them the names of their targets. Until greed had taken over their leader, Sloan. Until the assassins began killing for money and convenience rather than to protect the innocents, as they were supposed to.

Allen, who was better known as Cross, had been the one to catch Sloan in the lie. He'd tried to stop it, only for the man to call the rest of the Fraternity on him. So Cross had had to run, killing any assassin who got too close. After over a dozen ended up dead, Sloan decided to change tactics, taking in Cross's own son to train. The boy had been fed a story about his father being killed by a traitor of the organization. It'd pushed the back then confused and weak twenty-four year old into training like crazy, wanting to make his father proud, and avenge him. Fox had been chosen to be the boy's mentor... in the end Cross had very nearly died by his own son's hand. It had been a close call, very close...

It was entirely an accident that John was in Moravia that day. He'd been on a train that day, forced to take the long way back to Serbia because he simply didn't have the funds for a plane. He'd been fortunate enough to get leave to go visit his sister in the hospital after her car-accident. So he'd taken a train, only for it to be on a most awful accident... John's instincts as a soldier had been at full that day. He'd done everything he could to get the people out, and then he'd seen the trio armed, in the last carriage. The man trying to help the boy not fall off the end of the train. And the young woman that was just there...

It'd all happened so fast, a part of John would never be sure what all happened in that moment. Several shots rang almost simultaneously. One had hit the man in the shoulder, another had grazed the woman's neck, and the third had ricocheted off a wall, to hit the window pane beneath all of them (the carriage was sideways) shattering it completely.

The next thing John had known he was on the riverbed, coughing up way too much water, the boy was beside him, kneeling beside the man, who was unconscious and bleeding much too fast. Yet again John had followed his instincts, beginning to work on the man before he even thought of asking what was going on. He could hardly believe any of it when he heard the story.

John knew that it was only thanks to him that Cross had survived, that Wesley hadn't ended killing his father in a misguided attempt at avenging the man. He still didn't quite understand how Fox ended switching sides and being on their side... or how exactly the trio ended up using rats, peanut-butter and plastic watches to blow up HQ in Chicago and most of the people inside it.

But that wasn't the point that moment. No, in that moment their focus needed to be Alicia, the assassin who'd had his name come up... Wesley, Allen and Fox had been all for shooting her from a distance, like they'd done to many others, until they'd seen John with her. The father/son duo had decided they owed the doctor too much not to talk to him before. What they never expected was the story John Watson had to tell them.

"I have a plan." Fox offered once the story was finished.

She outlaid her idea. It was a crazy plan, even crazier than what Cross and Wesley had done in Chicago... and yet that one had worked, and John decided he could be a little positive. He had hope in that moment, like he hadn't had in months... the plan would work.

xXx

Mycroft felt like he was about to snap. It'd never happened before, but no one had ever tried his patience as much as Sir Edwin had during the last several meetings. It had begun the day his brother Sherlock failed to report for his mission in Eastern Europe. Everyone knew what that meant: he'd been made. Mycroft had been all for the operation going through right away, Sir Edwin had insisted on waiting for the next report (two days later), in case Sherlock had just been unable to present one. And he'd been supported.

It hadn't stopped there, two days later another meeting had taken place, and once again Mycroft insisted on the next part of the operation. But then Sir Edwin had insisted on it being too risky, the need to give more time for their analysts to come up with a strategy.

A week after Sherlock's official loss of contact, Mycroft, with the backing of Lady Smallwood, had finally pushed for the team of MI6 being sent to take down the terrorist cell. Only for his PA to interrupt the meeting with unexpected news. They'd just received the latest satellite pictures, which were supposed to be used to help the final plan; only instead they'd revealed something none of them could have ever imagined: the whole place had been blown up.

A week later they were all arguing about what had happened. Who might be responsible for that explosion, what did that meant for the mission, for the UK. It was common belief that their UC, Sherlock must have died in the explosion, if he hadn't been killed before. There were also rumors about there having been one or more American hostages, but nothing had been confirmed yet; though one of Mycroft's contacts in the CIA had told him they were sending a small team to the premises to try and find out what had happened. Several members of Parliament were of the opinion that they ought to do the same; though there were others (lead by Sir Edwin, who kept arguing it would be a waste of resources). Hence why Mycroft Holmes was getting extremely close to losing his temper at Sir Edwin.

A short knocking on the door distracted him briefly.

"Mr. Holmes, sir." His PA spoke the moment she was given leave to step in. "A courier just dropped a package sir. It's marked as priority delivery and top-secret."

Mycroft was about to question who exactly had delivered the package, when suddenly they all heard the sound of glass breaking, closely followed by a gasp that turned to a gurgle, a second before Sir Edwin's body dropped back, chair and all, a single red circle on the middle of his forehead, and half the back of his head missing.

Most of the members of Parliament reacted with gasps, screams, demands to know what had just happened. For Mycroft Holmes and Elisabeth Smallwood the truth was obvious easy enough: an assassin had just taken out Sir Edwin. Though that did not explain why him, or how an assassin had gotten anywhere close enough to the building to take out one of them.

"Bring me the Head of Security, and the Secret Service." Mycroft ordered strongly. "I want to know what just happened, and I want to know now."

"Yes sir." The PA nodded before walking away.

"You believe the rest of us are in danger?" Lady Smallwood asked, though it sounded more like someone looking for a second opinion, trying to confirm her own theory.

"This was precise, too precise." Mycroft said after shaking his head once. "They weren't after just any member of Parliament, or after all of us in general. This was a professional hit, on Sir Edwin. In short, if they wanted any or even all of us dead, we'd already be dead."

"That still doesn't explain who'd want to kill him." The lady insisted.

"No, but this might." The Holmes murmured.

Lady Smallwood turned to see him holding an open file in his hands, it was what had been in the envelope his PA had delivered, the top-secret priority delivery. Mycroft passed it to her, and soon she understood. It was a file on Edwin. It had everything from tax evasion, embezzlement, copies of receipts from merchandise acquired in the black market (mostly rare foods), evidence of a number of scams and bribes (both taken and given). Though the last pages were the most interesting: they signaled that Sir Edwin had been connected to Charles Magnussen, as well as to a certain terrorist cell in Eastern Europe...

"You think the same person who killed him, or had him killed, sent us this to justify the hit." Lady Smallwood murmured in understanding. "Though that does not explain what reasons anyone would have to want Sir Edwin dead."

"I believe you'll find this file is full of candidates for such a thing." Mycroft suggested.

Indeed, all the people whose lives had been affected or even ruined by Sir Edwin could be considered as suspects for murder.

After almost three weeks the group of MI5 that Mycroft and Lady Smallwood had personally handpicked and tasked with investigating Sir Edwin's assassination (as well as the 'proof of guilt' that had been sent to Mycroft), lead by Mycroft's PA, concluded that every person that appeared in the file who could be considered in any way a suspect had air-tight alibis (or were dead), therefore none of them had done it. It didn't get them any closer to finding who'd ordered the hit, and who pulled the trigger (if they were different people). However, all that was pushed aside rather suddenly when the next piece of news were received.

"Survivors?" Mycroft asked, trying to process what his PA had just said.

"Yes sir." She nodded. "We just received the message from the head of the Doctors Without Borders team in Ukraine. They have two survivors from the terrorist camp. One is an American freelance photographer the other... the other is your brother sir. Sherlock is alive."

xXx

A few days later, exactly a month since Sherlock had first gone off-radar, a military plane landed in a private airstrip, in the outskirts of London. Mycroft and his PA were standing right there, waiting, along with the American ambassador and a few Secret Service Agents. The American survivor was the first to step off the plane, along with his fiance and father; they would be sent back to their country in a couple of days, after they had the full reports on what had happened the day of the explosion.

Sherlock finally emerged from the plane then and, to Mycroft's honest surprise, he wasn't alone: John Watson was with him.

It took the eldest Holmes a few seconds to recall the last thing he'd known of Watson. He'd heard about Mrs. Watson going into labor, her child: Minna Alice being stillborn; he also had tests that showed that baby hadn't been a Watson at all. He'd been keeping those tests in secret in case he ever needed to 'persuade' Mrs. Watson into cooperating with him, or to get Dr. Watson to finally see reason. Neither of which had been necessary, as she'd died barely two months later, from a stray bullet in the middle of a robbery gone wrong. The shooter hadn't been caught.

It was after her funeral that John Watson had decided to leave Britain. Mycroft hadn't spoken to him, but his PA had kept him informed. So he knew that Dr. Watson had joined Doctors Without Borders and left almost immediately. And just two months later he was back... was it really a coincidence that he'd been working in Ukraine, in the very center where the only two survivors from that terrorist cell had ended up?

The interviews went just fine. As it was explained the two younger Americans were a journalist-photographer team who'd been in Russia trying to get a story that would position them back in the USA. They got too close to the terrorist hide-out, close enough the criminals had gone looking for them. The man (Wesley) had forced his partner and fiance, Evelyn, to hide, while he acted as a distraction, he'd ended up being taken by the terrorists. Evelyn had phoned her future father-in-law, as the man was former special forces, hoping he might know what to do.

None of them seemed to know what had happened exactly. Mr. Gibson had apparently been canvasing the area from a certain distance (after the military refused to go in without intel) and happened to find his son and Sherlock barely managing to get out, right as the whole place went up. It was he who'd driven them to the closest hospital, where they'd been given emergency attention before sending them on to a better facility, just across the border in Ukraine, which happened to be where the team from Doctors Without Borders were stationed.

John Watson hadn't actually known anything until the next day (as he'd had a couple of days off). He'd seen the two survivors early in his next shift, during his rounds and was the one to identify Sherlock (as the consulting detective had been unconscious still).

So, in the end they still didn't know how or why the terrorist hide-out had blown-up. Though at least they knew how Sherlock and Wesley had gotten to Ukraine... Mycroft knew he was missing something, something vital in everything, but hadn't the slightest idea what. Also, he was feeling too grateful that his brother had managed to survive, against all odds, to really think too much about the glaring coincidences and the holes in some of the testimonies.

The elder Holmes was still planning on sending some expensive wedding present to the couple in when the date was right. He would never forget when, during his interview, his little brother had mentioned how the American kept provoking their captors with his cheek, which caused them to focus their violence on him rather than on Sherlock. While most would probably think the man was simply too careless, or too stupid, Mycroft had seen his expression when he'd talked about the captivity from his own point of view. Wesley had known exactly what he was doing, the consequences there would be, and he'd done it on purpose. Therefore, the eldest Holmes was most definitely sending him and his bride something...

xXx

After the interviews and a full check-up the three Americans were on a private plane to the US (also payed by Mycroft), while John and Sherlock had been sent on a car back to Baker Street. Just by seeing the way they couldn't seem to stop holding hands, Mycroft could guess what was going to happen as soon as they got to their flat, he just hoped his brother would remember to turn on the machine that canceled all the bugs he had in the place (for security purposes, of course), there were things about Sherlock he just did not need to know.

Indeed Sherlock remembered to turn on the machine. However, even after he and John dropped on the bed, still panting and holding onto each other tightly, he didn't turn it off. They dozed for a while, or mostly it was John who dozed off while Sherlock watched him, still marveling at the fact that he finally had his doctor in his arms and in his bed. After the Fall and especially after Mary, there'd come a time when he'd been sure he'd never get the chance. And then he'd woken up from his second go at being a terrorist's hostage to gray eyes (with hints of blue and brown) looking straight at him. They'd settled their feelings right then and there (if one could call having John kiss Sherlock practically senseless the moment the consulting detective woke up 'settling their feelings'). They'd still waited until they were back in London and the 'privacy' of their own flat before consuming their new relationship, though.

"Have you slept at all?" John's drowsy voice penetrated through the layers of Sherlock's voice quite easily, as it always had.

"A little bit." Sherlock shrugged slightly, unable to move much due to the way the two were still holding onto each other.

"Oh, I'm sorry." The doctor made to let go right away. "You must be completely stiff by now, and bored to boot!"

"Don't let go!" The detective practically hissed, even as he held his partner tightly. "Just... don't let go John..."

"Sherlock... love, it's okay. I promise. I'm not going anywhere, and you're not going anywhere either. From this day on, where you go, I go. I'm not leaving you ever again."

"You promise?"

"I swear to you. I'll never leave you, ever. You're my only love, Sherlock."

"I only have one..." The detective mumbled, echoing the words he'd once used to make John realize he only had one friend...

Neither of them said a word for several minutes, just laying on the bed, snuggling.

"I remember..." The taller man whispered unexpectedly, straight into John's ear.

"What?" The former captain didn't quite understand what he meant.

"Russia." Sherlock elaborated. "I remember. The place where the Americans took me for the emergency treatment... it wasn't a rural hospital, it wasn't a hospital at all. The thing they used to treat me. It's no known medicine and... you were there."

"Sherlock..."

"If it's a secret tell me that, but don't lie to me John..."

"I promise that I'll never, ever lie to you, Sherlock. Now, before I say anything else I need you to tell me how good that machine of yours is. Are you sure that there's no way, no chance at all for Mycroft to overhear what I'm going to tell you?"

"None at all."

"Very well, I trust you."

Sherlock couldn't help the smile at that comment, something that would seem so simple, and yet for him was still amazing. Before meeting John he'd have never believed anyone would ever truly trust him, or that he'd ever truly trust anyone. Then again, before John he'd never known a true friend, had never known love... John was a first in many ways for him, the first and the only.

"You're right, I was in Russia." John began, not quite sure how to explain everything to Sherlock. "I got there the day before you were rescued, once Evelyn told me everything was ready to act."

"Evelyn..." Sherlock's eyes widened as he finally realized what he'd missed. "Evelyn Morgan, you know her, no... you know all three of them."

"I do." John agreed. "I met all three of them in a train bound to Serbia, around a year before I got shot. Evelyn went by Fox back then, but the point was the same. We were in an accident, the train went off the rails... it was awful. I followed my instincts, did all I could to get the civilians off the train before it went off the bridge we were on. A lot of people died that day. Almost half the train fell off before I could do much. When I got to the last carriage, aside from those that had gone down that is... they were there." He closed his eyes briefly to fight off the memory. "I think... I think my arrival distracted them, somehow. There were three shots fired, one of them probably mine. Then there were words, I didn't understand a lot of it, though it was later explained to me. In that moment all I knew was that the two young adults with the guns were arguing, Fox said something and then raised a gun against Wesley, who shot the train window, the very glass all of us were standing on... She managed to hold onto the edge of the window, the rest of us fell."

Sherlock hissed at the mere thought of something like that happening to John, but didn't interrupt.

"I woke up on the riverside, surprisingly with only a few contusions and scraps to show for what was a most awful fall." The doctor continued. "I saw Wesley and the other man beside me and my instincts kicked in again. I was treating them before I was fully conscious of it. Wesley was half-insane with worry, the moment I told him that the older man, his father as it turned out, would be alright, he practically collapsed. We were found by an old man, a good friend of Allen, Wesley's father, who took us all to a safe-house. There, things were finally explained to me."

John made a pause, reaching for the glass of water he kept on the night-stand. Sherlock looked most tense as he waited for the rest of the story, though he still remained quiet, John was thankful for that, unsure if he would be able to continue if he was interrupted (something the consulting detective had probably been able to deduce).

"As it was explained to me." The former captain went on. "There's a group of international assassins called the Fraternity. They claim to 'kill one to save a thousand'. Their marks are names given to seem supposedly by Fate. Though, before you ask, I have no idea how that's supposed to work out. Allen, under the code-name Cross, was one of the Fraternity. It was serious enough he faked his own death when Wesley was little to protect him. Fox was one of their number too, she was sent by Sloan, the leader of the group, to recruit Wesley into the Fraternity, telling him about his father's past. To convince the boy he was told that his father had just been killed by a traitor to the Fraternity, who they believed Wesley could take down, once he was properly trained." He shook his head. "Only that was a lie. Cross was the so-called traitor, he'd been taking out other Fraternity members, enough that Sloan decided to use Wesley to take the rogue assassin down; believing that Cross would never dare attack his own son. He was right, of course." He let out a sigh at the manipulation. "What happened there on that train, that was Wesley finally going after Cross, with Fox for backup. Only my arrival changed things up. Wesley was distracted in the last moment, so his shot didn't kill Cross, though none of us realized that at the time. The man told Wesley the truth before going unconscious, which Fox confirmed, before raising her own gun to take Wesley down. And that was when he shot the glass."

"He saved you..." Sherlock finally spoke, quietly.

"I don't think I was exactly a priority in that moment." John admitted with a shrug.

"But why did Allen... Cross, whatever, betray the Fraternity, if they were supposed to be doing good, saving people by killing...?" The taller man asked.

The doctor arched a brow at his friend's phrasing.

"Please John, both you and I know the world isn't black and white." The detective said with a roll of his eyes. "Much as we may not like it, some people really need to be killed, for the rest of the population to be safe... case in point, Moriarty and his web. You know what I did those two years I was forced to be away..."

"Of course, love, of course. I've never held your actions against you and I never will. I know they were necessary." John shook his head. "I don't know everything, since I'm not Fraternity I didn't really need to know. But apparently Allen discovered that Sloan had betrayed the principles their organization was supposed to follow, killing for money and convenience rather than to protect. He said that Sloan's name 'came up', though I'm not sure what's that supposed to mean, aside from the fact that Sloan was a mark. But the leader turned on Cross, making him the enemy before the rest of the Fraternity could turn on him."

"An intelligent strategy." Sherlock admitted. "As was using the man's son against him. Though he never counted on your interference."

"Complete coincidence that it was."

"Why were you even on that train?"

"Harry and Clara had been on an accident. I asked for leave to see them, and was granted it. However, as I was low on funds I couldn't afford plane-tickets. A supplies plane took me close enough to London, but I had to travel by train on the way back to the base, once my leave was over. Like I said complete coincidence."

"Or fate..." The detective pointed out, in regards to how the Fraternity supposedly served fate. "Absolutely preposterous of course but..."

"An interesting notion."

"Interesting indeed. What happened then?"

"Allen gave me the means to get back to base before I could be declared as AWOL. He also put a considerable amount of money in my account, though I'd refused to let him pay me anything for my 'services'. In the end that money was the only reason I managed to stay 'on my feet' so-to-speak after my shot and being sent back to London..."

"Then it was a good thing."

"That it was. Anyway, that was pretty much the last time I saw any of them, until late one evening in my office, about two months ago. It took me no time at all to realize what they were doing there... they were after someone who's name had come up."

"There's no way they would be after you."

"No." John smiled sincerely at Sherlock's faith in him. "Not my name, Mary's... or Alicia, as her true name turned out to be."

"She didn't really die in a robbery gone wrong, did she?"

"No, they just made it look that way. Trust me Sherlock, after I learned everything she'd done... since I learned she was the one who shot you I knew I couldn't love her anymore; after the loss of Minna I could hardly stand to be in the same room as her. And after they told me... Apparently M... Alicia was Sloan's lover and fully aware of what he was doing. She high-tailed it out of there after the HQ in Chicago were blown to kingdom come." He let out a breath. "Wesley, Evelyn and Allen actually spent the last six years or so hunting down all the remaining members of the Fraternity. Alicia was the last one. They actually lost her for a while, after she took the name of Mary Morstan... though I actually think Moriarty might have had something to do with that, keeping her safe from them. They couldn't find her, until she shot you. Single shot in the vena cava, that was her signature. Practically no one survives from such a shot, I still have no idea how you managed that, but thank you Sherlock... thank you for being my miracle, again."

"I had to come back, there was no other option. You were in danger, from the last person you'd ever expect the danger to come from. I had to come back, had to keep you safe."

The words touched something deep inside John. He couldn't hold himself back as he pressed against Sherlock from toes to chest, taking the taller man's mouth in his own in a passionate, almost brutal kiss.

"Oh, ohhhhh..." Sherlock let out a sound that seemed part-moan, part-whine from the back of his throat. "Oh John... I love you..."

The former military actually had to stop for a second to fully process what he'd just heard, the words that warmed him up inside.

"I love you too Sherlock..." He whispered before nibbling on the detective's earlobe.

There was no more talking after that. Though eventually there would be.

Eventually they would talk about the plan that had allowed Sherlock to be rescued and the terrorist cell to be taken down. Where Wesley had gotten himself abducted and then made sure to keep the vicious men's attention on him enough so they wouldn't torture the consulting detective anymore. The American knew he could take it, he'd been trained to endure worse than what the terrorists were capable of dishing out. Then the signal had been sent on, and Fox and Cross had released the rats. The first of which had tracked Wesley (it'd also worked as his own signal). Then the American had released himself (and caused himself some more injuries in the process), gotten to Sherlock and practically dragged him out of the hide-out around the same time it went up.

Allen and Evelyn had driven Sherlock and Wesley to a safe-house near the border with Ukraine, where John and Pekwarsky were waiting with a couple of water-filled tubs and the Fraternity's special healing wax. They'd only kept the pair there long enough to treat their worst injuries before going on to the DWB's hospital in Ukraine. John hadn't been able to go with them, as he was supposed to be off duty. It was awful, having to wait until the next day, and then pretend to not know Wesley and the others, and just suddenly finding Sherlock... but it had been necessary, because no one could know who'd really blown up that terrorist cell, or about John's connection with the near-extinct Fraternity of assassins. Or what had happened with Sir Edwin (and John still had no idea when exactly Allen decided to go after that man, though he was at least grateful that he wouldn't be trying anything else against Sherlock).

It would be too dangerous for Mycroft to find out about any of it. Especially because it was done, there was no more Fraternity. With the death of Alicia (and after the 'operation' the three had insisted on doing to pay back for what John had done for them in Moravia), Evelyn, Wesley and Allen had decided to put an end to their lives as assassins. Evelyn and Wesley had really been taking pictures and writing articles freelance as they traveled around the world in order to initiate themselves in new professions. They would be moving into a new houses, getting married, moving on, living new lives.

Just like John and Sherlock. Mary/Alicia had been a mistake, John accepted that. And yet, if that mistake had allowed him the means of getting Sherlock back (because, with or without Mary, Magnussen would still have been an issue, and Sherlock would still have done anything to stop him); so maybe if she'd been the means of John and Sherlock finally getting a chance to be together, having a new life... maybe it was one mistake that had been worth it.

I realize I'm getting progressively worse regarding Mary, I cannot help it... though I promise it gets a bit less so later on. In fact, I dare say this is probably the worst I treat her... but I just cannot stand the woman most of the time!

I know I also got a bit vicious with Lord Edwin this time, but there's just something about that man I cannot stand, and this way my way of showing it... it also added a nice spin to the story I was building up I think (and I needed an excuse for things that had worked in other pieces, like the interference of MI6, not to be enough here).

Now, I'm still working on more pieces for this series, but there is a chance that we'll break 'protocol' and I'll post something else next week. Why? Because my muse is demanding that I write a Reichenbach-inspired piece, that' why. It won't be part of this series, but it'll still be Sherlock BBC and it most definitely will be Johnlock. So if you people don't see me around here (the series) by Saturday next week at the latest, that's why.

Please don't forget to comment. See ya around!