John Watson paused outside the partially closed door to his daughter's nursery. At five weeks old, Willa had been moved into her own room just the previous week. John had protested, saying it was too soon. Mary had insisted, arguing that privacy would allow them to regain their previous intimacy.

And that was the real reason why John had argued against the move. He had returned to Mary out of responsibility to his unborn child, hoping Willa's birth would help to reconnect the shattered pieces of their marriage. But every time he looked at Mary, he pictured her firing a gun at his best friend, the man who was speaking in low tones to his daughter right now.

"You have your father's stubborn jaw. I wish you would wake to see if you have his eyes. They're dark blue, you know. Many people think they're brown, because they only ever see him from a distance. But I've been lucky enough to be close to your father. I know they're blue."

John heard a gentle rustling, and then Sherlock said, "You have a remarkably strong grip, even in your sleep. Good girl. A fighter like your father. Like your mother, too. Maybe as you grow up, you'll help your mother keep your father safe. Lord knows I've been a failure at that."

John took a few silent barefoot steps forward and peered into the room. The window was open from where Sherlock had climbed in, and the smell of the rainy night filled the room. The illumination of the star-shaped nightlight allowed John to notice that Sherlock's long coat was damp, and he had removed one sodden glove to allow Willa to grab a finger.

John knew Sherlock got on well with children. Still, the sight of Sherlock holding his daughter's hand caused John's throat to tighten with overwhelming affection tinged with fear. Not that John worried Sherlock would ever be a threat to his daughter. No, never that. But John knew only extraordinary circumstances would drive Sherlock to enter his daughter's nursery uninvited, in the middle of the night. His fear was validated as he heard Sherlock say, "But your father won't be in as much danger without me around anymore."

John was surprised at the steadiness of his voice as he asked, "And where exactly will you be?"

Sherlock stood tall from where he had been leaning over the cot, but he did not dislodge Willa's tiny grip. "How did you know I was here?"

John pointed to the baby monitor on a brightly painted chest of drawers.

"Ah."

Sherlock gnawed on his lower lip and continued his contemplation of the sleeping child. John was certain Sherlock was avoiding looking at him directly. Time to switch tactics.

"You could have just knocked."

Sherlock attempted a weak smile. "Where would be the fun in that?"

"If you'd let me know you wanted to meet her..."

"Of course, I wanted to meet her."

"... Then you could have called, and I'd have let you in the front door at a civilized hour!"

"I couldn't come in the front door, John. You could not be seen welcoming me."

"Why the fuck not?"

"Mind your language, John." Sherlock gently covered Willa's upturned ear, dwarfing her tiny head with his hand.

John huffed out a quiet laugh, amused by Sherlock chiding him for inappropriate behavior. "Seriously, Sherlock, why can't you be seen here?"

"I'm supposed to be at Baker Street."

"Well, you do live there."

"Yes, but..."

Sherlock at a loss for words was never a good sign. John prompted, "But?"

Sherlock's shoulders hunched, as if he were bracing for a fight. "I'm under house arrest."

John was taken aback. Even for Sherlock, this was an unexpected development. "For what?"

Shaking his head, Sherlock responded, "Oh, John, you know what."

Magnussen. John gasped. But it can't be. "I thought that was over with. When they called the plane, you, back, I thought that meant..."

"I had hoped, but no."

John clenched his hands into tight fists. "It's unfair! You did everything they asked of you."

"I still killed a man, John. I deserve to be punished." A hint of dismay flickered across Sherlock's face, an expression John had previously seen during the few times they'd been together since Christmas. John knew Sherlock had never planned on killing Magnussen, and certainly never an unarmed man.

His voice soft, John attempted to assuage Sherlock's guilt. "You killed him defending Mary."

Sherlock shot John a quick glare before looking away again, and John felt a pang of shame. Protecting Mary was the fiction John had composed to cope with going back to her after the shooting at Appledore. He could still feel the horror and shock as it finally occurred to him the depth of emotion that may have compelled Sherlock to take such lethal action against Magnussen. It had hurt John more than he would have ever guessed to not be allowed to remain at Sherlock's side at the time. And to return to the flat he inhabited with Mary was almost more than he could bear.

Desperation crept into John's tone. "They know what kind of man Magnussen was."

"Trust me, Mycroft has tried every argument." A rueful smile appeared on Sherlock's face. "Nobody understands it was self defense."

Sherlock continued, the time speaking directly to Willa. "If anything happened to your father, it would kill me."

And John's carefully constructed fiction crumbled around him at Sherlock's words. "No, never that, please."

"It's true. Once you knew Magnussen had information of any sort on Mary, you'd go after him. I had to prevent that. Just like sneaking in here tonight to avoid scrutiny. I do not want you implicated in any part of my crimes, or Mary's. You deserve so much more, so much better."

John felt the frustration of being left behind after the fall from St. Bart's, left out of so many decisions over the years, yet again. "We could have worked something out. Approached Mycroft. You could have trusted me."

"I saw how angry you were about his defilement of my fireplace."

"Of course, I was. He came into our home as a guest and..."

"Magnussen came to my hospital room once when you had stepped out. He touched me while I was too weak to move away."

John braced himself against the wall with one hand while his other covered his eyes. His heart pounded, and his vision blacked out along the edges.

"See how you react to him touching me. Imagine how you would feel about it if it had been Mary."

Oh, Sherlock, I cannot imagine being more angry than I am right now. Attempting to keep his voice as calm as possible, John asked, "What did he do to you? Did he hurt you?"

"That really is not the point, John."

John squeezed his eyes closed tight, trying to get the image of Magnussen abusing a weakened Sherlock out of his mind. "Then what exactly is your point?"

"That you are willing to do anything to protect the people you care about. And I cannot let you do that for me. You have the life you've always wanted, with the woman you love and this beautiful child. I need to protect you, all of you. But it seems I'm not very good at that."

John looked at his friend, thinking of their years apart. He remembered how resentful he had been upon Sherlock's return, thinking he'd been on a grand adventure. But in reality, Sherlock had been in deadly peril. John feared he knew where Sherlock was headed next.

"You said you're leaving. Sherlock, where will you be going?"

"You know, John."

"Perhaps I'm hoping I'm wrong."

As Sherlock hesitated in giving his response, John scrutinized his dearest friend with a doctor's eyes. His hair was longer than usual, and the rain caused long strands to cling to his too thin face. The shadowing under his eyes was deep, as if he had not slept for days. Sherlock had obviously been neglecting himself. John felt a strong urge to cook Sherlock's favorite mushroom risotto with peas and feed it to him while bundled up in a warm blanket and John's arms. Was that it? Every time I wanted to shake him, I actually wanted to hold him?

Sherlock's reply cut through John's thoughts. "Back to Eastern Europe, as the agreement established."

Once again, John grabbed at the wall for support. "But you said it was a terminal mission. When you got called back home, you let that slip."

"I admit I regret my honesty now."

Sherlock's attempt at levity failed, as John spiraled into despair. To carry on once again without Sherlock in his life was unthinkable. "This can't be happening."

"It's okay, John. I was able to spend more time with you. We had one last go at the game together, you and I." Sherlock smiled down at the sleeping baby in her cot. "I had a chance to meet your daughter. You have no idea how much she means to me."

A series of images flooded John's mind. Sherlock feeding Willa her bottle. Giving her dancing lessons as she stood on his feet. Teaching her to play the violin. Deducing her teenage suitors. Sharing whisky in front of the hearth at Baker Street after dropping Willa off for her first day at university. It wasn't until that very moment that John understood he had envisioned a future with Willa and Sherlock, not Willa and Mary. This truth rattled him to his core.

"She needs you."

Sherlock shook his head. "No. She'll have her parents. I'm making sure of that."

"I can't do this without you."

The admission shocked John as much as Sherlock. But now he'd said it, he couldn't stop. "I came back for the baby, but I can't love Mary after what she did to you. I'm trying, but I can't and I don't think I ever will. I don't know what I will do without you here with me."

The furrows about Sherlock's nose deepened as they always did when he was confused. "You need to give it time, John. I know how much you've loved Mary, how much she helped you when I was away. You will have her at your side from the very beginning this time. You will find your way back to her again."

"How can you possibly be so calm about this? You're leaving here to die, and she indirectly put you there."

Sherlock made a thoughtful hum before he said, "Maybe I'm too sympathetic to Mary to advise you objectively."

"Sympathetic? She shot you. Looked you right in the eye and shot you."

"But she was trying to protect her life with you. Therein lies my sympathy, John."

"I don't understand," said John, starting to really believe he did.

"I had a life with you once. In retrospect, it was the happiest time of my adult life. You think I easily left that life behind, but I was just trying to protect it, protect you and all those around me who Moriarty was threatening."

Willa made one of the tiny mewling sounds in her sleep that had already charmed John several times in the few weeks since her birth. She had a similar effect on Sherlock, who broke into one of his rare delighted grins as he stared down at her. "She's perfect, John."

He's only known her a few minutes, and he loves her already. How could I ever have doubted his ability to care? A universe of possibilities was unfolding before John's eyes, even as he was about to lose it forever. "Yeah, perfect."

Sherlock mistook the sadness in John's voice for reproach. "You've tried to forgive me, but I know you've never trusted me again. I understand. You think I left you behind because I didn't trust you or need you at my side. The truth is, I always want you with me. Just the thought..." He paused, clearly stricken.

"Yet you were still going to leave without saying good-bye." As much as he tried to hide it, some anger filtered through in John's words.

"I am just so tired of saying good-bye to you." The set of Sherlock's shoulders showed how defeated he felt in that moment, and panic surged through John.

"So run away. You got out of Baker Street tonight. You don't have to return."

"Yes, I do. You would never have a moment's peace if the government thought you knew where I was, and then it would have all been for nothing." Sherlock sighed. "I knew the moment I pulled the trigger I would be punished for my crime. I waited for witnesses so nobody would think it'd been you."

"I never asked you for that."

"You never had to." Sherlock paused and looked steadily at John for the first time that night. "Willa?"

John nodded. "For you."

"I know it doesn't seem this way from the amount of pain I have caused you over the years, but being your friend has been my greatest honor and privilege."

Sherlock leaned down and tenderly kissed Willa's hand, still clasping his finger after all that time.

"I hope the day will come when you can truly forgive me. Perhaps even think of me without feeling sad."

Unmistakable reluctance slowed Sherlock's normally brisk pace as he placed Willa's tiny fist on her chest, then pulled a glove back over his bare hand.

"And maybe someday you'll be ready to tell your daughter of the adventures you shared with a madman." Sherlock paused, his voice catching. "Who loved you with all of his broken heart."

"Don't..." John started, but emotion closed this throat and he could not force more words out. Seemingly without volition, John's left hand reached out, and his body swayed towards Sherlock.

But even as he turned towards the window, Sherlock raised his own hand in a gesture that kept John fixed in place. As he maneuvered his long legs over the window sill, Sherlock looked briefly back at John. The pale lamplight filtering through the open window emphasized his beauty, his facial expression full of affection and sorrow.

"Good-bye, John."

And then Sherlock was gone, leaving John with only the sound of the rain as a reminder he'd been there at all.