This was once both much shorter and much longer. Longer before I realized there's a reason Mofftiss write the Sherlock episodes and I don't, and shorter before reasons and four and a half thousand word explosions and trying to be very clever because this fandom is basically the most overwhelmingly intelligent fandom, like, ever.

There might be more. Should there be more? And if so, in what capacity? I aim to please. And I enjoy prompts. Particularly on wishful-thinking-Mary-as-a-real-character-in-this-version-even-if-Conan-Doyle-didn't-give-her-all-that-much-development-to-begin-with, *hinthint*... Please.

"Not that difficult," John mutters to himself. He's already greeted Mrs. Hudson - a hug, her going on about how brave he was, (which is a damn lie because it's taken him all this time just to come back and look) wishing him luck - and now the seventeen impossible steps lay before him. Seventeen. So specific. Where had that come from?

He knows where it came from. Where does any of it come from, the random factoids that somehow managed to still stick and hurt three years later? Tobacco ash. Maps of London. The door handles of Chinese restaurants - though he'd never gotten to explain that one and John couldn't figure it out, of course. The phone in his pocket.

Occasionally, he does it too. Not everything, not within one glance, not always, and he certainly doesn't say it out loud because he thinks he's right or clever. But sometimes he'll be working, barely looking at his patient, when he'll suddenly notice something on their shoes, or something about their hands that makes him look twice to make sure he's really seeing it. And he'll remember what it means and why and when Sherlock told him and what case they were on and then he stops, because that's still so hard and he really needs to focus. He swings his leg up.

His flat with Mary doesn't have steps, and now he remembers why: Psychosomatic or not, this hurts. It hurts and it hasn't gotten any better since it started coming back the day of the funeral. The old John Watson - Mike Stamford's John Watson or... - wouldn't have wanted a flat with no stairs just because it was easy, but he's more practical now. What's the point in causing himself pain in the vague hope that someday, it'll get better? He isn't sure when he became so cynical, but he knows isn't quite so disgusted with himself for taking the easy way out any more.

The door handle doesn't stick when he turns it. Mrs. Hudson kept the flat in better shape than she let on. He already doesn't see how she's been able to let it sit empty for three years.

But, sure enough, there are their things. Their mess. Mrs. Hudson had talked about getting rid of things, or at least cleaning up so it's not in such a state more than once, but she'd clearly never gotten around to it, or maybe just not had the heart. John's breath catches in his throat. Jesus, it looks like he'll just waltz out of the kitchen with more papers to spread around... which is precisely what happens.

He's dressed but without his jacket or shoes, and John immediately notices that he's decidedly thinner. He's armed to the teeth with photographs and push pins to add to the diagram on the wall, which, John should have noticed, displays a different puzzle than the one Sherlock left three years ago. His march across the room is self-assured. All so, so normal.

... Until he meets Johns eyes. Then his stride falters, and John sees how tired he is. Really, truly tired, like he's coming down from metaphorical days of coffee and nicotine patches and not even more stimulants will do it any more, he needs to collapse for a while. A host of expressions flash through the blue eyes. Surprise. Panic. Things that John can't find a word to describe, and he doubts anyone ever will. Guilt.

He looks away first.

John isn't sure how he feels while Sherlock closes the distance from the center of the room to the couch, or while he sets down the photographs and fiddles with them for a long few, completely unnecessary seconds. He isn't sure when Sherlock stops and leaves the photos, but still won't look at him. There's still guilt on the downcast face, and all John can think about is how wrong it looks. It isn't until he draws himself up and opens his mouth that John knows.

"John. You're a bit early. I won't pretend it's not inconvenient..."

He doesn't get to finish.

Sherlock reels backward and there's a heavy thud. The table doesn't tip only because of the heavy load on the other side. John shakes out his hand as Sherlock emerges, gingerly touching the wrong side of his face. The hard wood has made a cut in the tender flesh between his eye and cheekbone - which juts from his face imperiously as ever - that hasn't started to bleed yet, but it will. The other side will only bruise, not even badly. John knows - damn it all, he knows - that he shouldn't feel as guilty as he does. Sherlock deserves it, and much more besides.

But the resigned look that comes over him, how he doesn't protest or ask what it was for or rattle off something about what John was doing last night, makes him feel awful and satisfied all at once.

"Told you: Always," he says, as though picking up an old conversation. He knows exactly which one. They both do. I always hear, "punch me in the face," when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext. He turns on his heel and starts back down the stairs, his leg not hurting quite so much, thinking that the worst part was that it truly felt as though nothing had changed.

He doesn't say anything to Mary when he gets back to their flat. She knows something went wrong, of course - what did it say about him, that he was only really wanted to spend time with people who were brilliant enough to see straight through him? - and she would find out exactly what it was soon enough.

"Soon enough," this time, is only after a few hours, when John suddenly goes for his coat and says, "Sorry. I've got to go back. I'm sorry, I know..." He's not sure what he knows. That they were going to have a nice night in, with take out and crap telly and not saying much because there isn't much to be said and staring into each other's eyes like something off the bad drama they're watching, like a dozen others they've had since they met? That John really shouldn't go back for a while, maybe ever? She gives him a look as she follows him to the door. He sees in her face that she's pieced it together and, somehow, she still doesn't object.

She doesn't say anything as he kisses her goodbye, which is what he loves desperately about her. She reads him so clearly and somehow knows just when he needs to talk and how much and where to press and what to leave alone, with a remarkable, blissful ability to let things go entirely, and maybe it's enabling him and his trust issues but does he give a damn?

Mrs. Hudson is still up, but he doesn't stop to say hello again because he's embarrassed and there's a dusty light peeking out from under the door of 221B - their door. The bastard is still in.

The stairs are easier this time and he hates it. One glimpse of him for not even a minute, one punch to the face and there he is, messing with his head and his limp. John doesn't nock.

"Go away." The voice comes from the couch. John steps in and looks at him curled up there with an ice bag flush against his face, causing tissue damage, and there are the emotions again. Surprise. Panic. Guilt. "John," he says quickly. "I thought you were Mycroft."

John needs a moment to formulate a reply, so he takes the ice away. He knows Sherlock thought no such thing. "Your brother's developed a limp since I last saw him?" he asks as he wraps the plastic bag in his handkerchief - which is, admittedly, a little used, but the possibility of a mild cold is no more than Sherlock deserves. It sounds neither as detached nor imperious as he would like, but Sherlock says nothing.

He hands the ice back, then notices a faint scratch on the cheek where John had hit him that hadn't been there before; not enough to break the skin, but inflamed. There's another, shorter one next to it, barely more than a dot. He squints at them, then raises his eyebrows.

Without looking at him, Sherlock replies to the unanswered question, "Mrs. Hudson's nails are in need of a trim."

This brings a morbid smile to John's face. "Good for her," he mutters.

He begins to look around the flat, noting the changes. He sees that Sherlock has been living here for a while now, very quietly, evidently. No violin early in the morning, no strange smells, no heavy footfalls or outburst from boredom. Nothing to get Mrs. Hudson's attention, which is quite remarkable. There was a case on, a big one, otherwise there wouldn't have been a need for the photos and the mapping. And Mycroft comes to call, frequently enough to have Sherlock on edge all the time, even if he had been lying about confusing their footsteps. Something important enough for them to work together.

"You're noticing," Sherlock says suddenly. His eyes are fixed on John. "Good."

There's an important word stuck in the back of John's throat. He tries several times, opening his mouth and closing it again to try to get a better grip. It needs to be said, but he just doesn't want to cooperate.

More deep breaths later than he likes to admit, John says, "Why?

"Why, Sherlock? Why did you do this? No," he says as Sherlock opens his mouth, "No, I don't care, actually, it's always something. National importance or the world's going to... blow up, or something. No. I just need to know why you didn't think I could be trusted with it."

"John, I -"

"How long did you make Mycroft wait?" Petty. Petty, petty, petty. And he's not letting Sherlock explain, which isn't fair. But John doesn't care. The words won't stop now. "You don't even like him, and you know what? It was all his fault, the business with Moriarty. All him. Or did he figure it out? Is that it? Was I supposed to have gotten it too? Thanks. Thanks for that, Sherlock. I'm just not smart enough. I'm not smart enough to be able to know that my best friend isn't actually dead!" His voice breaks and his throat is sore with suppressed sobs and God, everything hurts.

"John, that's not it."

"Then what the hell is it!" he shouts.

He waits while Sherlock's jaw works. The ice has made its way to the table and is forgotten, and John can see the bruising around his eye and he's not sorry. "I didn't want you in the line of fire again," he finally says. It's terribly, terribly controlled.

John laughs, and it hurts to be so bitter. "Don't, Sherlock, don't say what you don't mean."

"I never do, John -"

"You didn't want me in the way of your brilliant plans to do whatever you were doing for -"

"That's not what I said, listen to the words I used!" Sherlock bangs the table for punctuation. He's only ever done it like that once before, with such a fierce intensity that John was momentarily frightened. He rearranges his features and says calmly, "It was going to be tomorrow. I was going to tell you tomorrow."

"Why tomorrow? And what good, exactly, did you think that was going to do? Did you think you were just going to show up on my doorstep and we could just go have adventures again and nothing would be wrong? I've got a life, now, Sherlock. I'm getting married. Married! In six months. And you know what, I'm not sure you're getting an invite."

John sees Sherlock's lips move and he thinks they might be forming the words, "Don't be absurd," but he isn't sure and there's enough to be angry over already. And then he says aloud, "I know, John."

John purses his lips and says again, "Why tomorrow?"

"Because," Sherlock says, standing up. He doesn't speak with the arrogance that he would have three years ago, but there's that glint of a thrill in his eye now that tells him he'd been hoping John would ask after he'd gotten done shouting at him, and John tries to tell himself that it doesn't make him curious or excited and hates himself when it doesn't work. "Tonight, I finally bring in Moriarty's right hand man. He's the prize I've been chasing over the continent while I've been locking up all the petty criminals in our friend Jim's employ. No match for either of us, of course, but very, very good at running and not getting caught in traps."

"And now you've got one you think will work." Why was he fueling Sherlock's ego? That's all this is. And he isn't done shouting yet.

"Exactly."

"Why?"

"Because I am the bait."

John's stomach sinks and a cold sweat washes over him. He shakes his head very slightly because that's all he can manage. "No," he says.

Sherlock cocks his head to the side, not understanding. "Why not? It's perfect. Moran has an overly strong sentimental connection to his employer and wants to finish Moriarty's work: Killing me."

"Yeah, that's exactly why not." He wants to punch him again. He's fairly certain Sherlock isn't being a prat on purpose, but that doesn't make a difference. He's almost ready to say it explicitly, the things he keeps inside because finding the words is just too hard. I don't want to even think about you dying again, not now that you've just come back. Please don't make me.

"I don't..." He stops. Thinks a moment. Then he rolls his eyes with understanding and sighs heavily. "I'm in no danger, John."

"You're never in danger, to hear you talk. I'm just in danger of not knowing you're not in danger."

Sherlock is about to say something else when the door swings open. Mycroft Holmes peers in with a bemused look on his face. "Bit of a domestic spat, is it?" He gives John a charming smile while Sherlock tells him to shut up. "Good evening, Dr. Watson," he says warmly, as though it hasn't been almost two years since they'd last spoken.

"Evening," John says stiffly.

"Your concern is perfectly sound," Mycroft says in a care-free voice, twirling the umbrella he's brought, as always, despite the lack of rain. "Or at least, concern in the original draft of this plan would be perfectly sound."

"Oh, please," Sherlock mutters on his way back to the sofa.

"I had misgivings when it was first presented to me," he continues. "My brother luring into the grasp of Scotland Yard a man who has outsmarted him -" Sherlock mumbles "out-ran" "- several times with the promise of his own assassination is a disaster waiting to happen. However, with the both of us working on it, I can assure you it is quite safe."

"Please," Sherlock says. "You changed a grand total of three minute details as far from intrinsic as it's possible to be."

"For the record," Mycroft says loudly, "I thought you should have been told much sooner, Dr. Watson. Sherlock was insistent that you be kept out of harms way.

"The plan is already in the final stages. I can assure you that if you stay here, you will not even be aware of its conclusion."

John shakes his head. His mouth makes the movements to say, "I can't," but the sound doesn't quite make it. So, instead, he says, "I'll just... take a minute. You two discuss your top secret, don't-explode-the-world crap." He steps out, closes the door, and takes a series of shaky, stabilizing breaths.

"Didn't I tell you this is what you could expect?" Mycroft makes for what had always been John's seat, because he knows it won't go unnoticed and he can't resist poking at his brother, even when he's upset. "Didn't I tell you it would hurt him?"

"For God's sake, Mycroft, please tell me we're not going to discuss feelings." Sherlock spits the word as though it's something dirty. "Us. Feelings."

"Not if it doesn't please his Royal Highness."

"How very modern. Isn't that treason for you, dear brother?"

"It might be for you."

"Fascinating."

There is a silence. There always seems to be silence when they're together, Mycroft has noticed. So few things really needed to be said.

But... "It's very noble of you, really." Sherlock is standing up, not listening, which is probably better. "You truly want him to be happy with Ms. Morstan, don't you?"

"Mycroft..."

He almost continues. But there's no bite to his name, no derision, and no irritation either. Just urgency. His brother is scanning the adjacent building, keeping his body as far away from the window frame as the flat allows. Internal alarms go off. Mycroft stands too, gears turning in his own mind. He's gotten every confirmation of the false trail. The airport, the cabs, the diversion at the hotel, where had it - ?

"I think we've made a -"

The word "mistake" is barely started, certainly not finished. Mycroft takes a step, tries to support his brother as he reels backward and gets a pinwheeling arm in the nose for his efforts. They both go down hard, Sherlock gasping. A second bullet hits John's chair, but then there are no more. The ground is low enough, then.

Mycroft pulls off his jacket, grabbing his phone from his inside pocket and pressing a few pre-selected buttons to call for an ambulance carrying more units of AB blood than was technically allowed. The jacket covers the wound just below Sherlock's ribcage, then both palms follow to try to stem the spurts of blood. Sherlock convulses, groaning at this development. Mycroft tries to discern if there's blood on his lips without taking the pressure off.

"John," Sherlock whispers breathily. His lips are moving as though there are other words he's trying to say, but that is the only one audible. "John."

"I'm here, you idiot." Mycroft hadn't heard him come in, but there he is, bending over his friend, trying to get a good look. "Move," he says, prying the jacket away, no less harsh than Mycroft deserves. He obeys, and John is examining the wound, finding the severed artery. He takes one of Mycroft's hands and presses it to a very specific spot on Sherlock's chest. "Pressure, right there," he tells him. "Don't stop or he'll bleed out. Ambulance?"

"On the way."

"John," Sherlock says again.

"I know, I know, I've been shot too, remember," he responds without looking up. He pinches something else that Mycroft can't see, then puts his free hand on Sherlock's shoulder, gives it a little shake. "It's all right, Sherlock, you hear me? It's going to be all right."

"John."

"No. No, you stay with me, okay?" He moves his hand from Sherlock's shoulder down his arm until he reaches the end, twining their fingers together. Mycroft isn't sure why until he sees how gray his brother looks and how badly he's shaking. When the hell had that happened? "Stay with me. You can sleep all you want later. Days, if you want. Just stay awake now."

"John." He sounds as weak as he looks.

"No, damnit, that's not how it works, you bloody know that!"

Then the ambulance is there and John is instructing the paramedics and they don't have time to argue and damnit he's Sherlock's doctor, he's coming with them and Mycroft is left alone on the floor of 221B Baker Street, covered in his brother's blood and shaken more than he ever plans to admit to anyone. All lives end, he reminds himself, but the thought of Sherlock's life ending at that exact moment is no less terrifying. This is how it feels, to care so very much, and Mycroft knows why the Holmes brothers cut themselves off. It's not for any of the noble reasons they like to boast of. It's not because they are superior. It's not because the alternative is not an advantage. It's not so they can think more clearly. It's not because they can rationalize human lives down to water and proteins and trace amounts of minerals so what does any of it matter anyway.

It's because it hurts.

It hurts, and they are too weak to cope with the pain caring brings. Mycroft had all but collapsed when Sherlock had jumped. That the world seemed to slow to a halt in the days after the detective's suicide was not an illusion. The British government (and much more besides) could barely move from his armchair in the Diogenes Club where he'd fixed his face to make it look like he didn't feel the immense and all encompassing pain of questions that even he would never be able to find answers to, of spats that would never happen, grudging compromises that would never be made. And it was somehow worse when Sherlock casually showed up in his flat, demanding the means to go traipsing about Europe as a one man police force, cleaning up everything Moriarty had left behind.

Mycroft had barely been able to scold him. But he did manage to ask, "Does John know?" which he knew was so much worse.

Dr. John H. Watson. Nerves of steel indeed. Mycroft had found out how upset John was by the Moriarty business, as he went about cleaning up Sherlock's mess. John Watson cares so much, and never tries to make it stop, not really. How masochistic. How stupid. How brave. He'd been hurt so deeply, and he was still willing to jump back in the moment he heard the gunshot. Still willing to save Sherlock and make him worse than ever. Still willing to hear the words Sherlock can't say.

John, I'm sorry. I was wrong, John, I'm so sorry.

John, it hurts. Please make it stop, please, it hurts so much.

I'm so tired, John, I just want to sleep. Please let me sleep.

John, I'm afraid.

He wonders if John even notices that the rest of the words aren't there.

Sherlock notices that he's in a hospital and that he's drugged out of his mind. Which is, admittedly, overwhelmingly good; he's survived this long and regaining consciousness so there's a decent if not good prognosis and he will freely admit that he would not consider it a missed opportunity for science if he never has the experience of being shot in the chest without heavy pain medication ever again. He opens his eyes.

Of course, it's not a simple as that, because it's so much work. The drugs - or maybe the injury - want to make him just lie there, conscious but unseeing, which has never been his preferred state of being. He fights it.

When he finally does get them to open and stay that way, John is there. Just like he promised in the ambulance - or maybe when they were coming into the hospital - when they were pumping Sherlock full of blood and he was getting feeling back in his fingers and of course his chest and he will swear to the end of his days that there has never been a worse pain experienced by anyone, mostly just to annoy Mycroft, and they were tearing John away from him so they could go save his life and he was so irrationally afraid of being rolled away from his blogger on a gurney again and he begged, God help him, Sherlock begged for John not to go and he promised he would be there when Sherlock woke up.

But John is ignoring him. He must have seen Sherlock, as he'd worked every muscle he could for the simple task of moving his eyelids - that are still so, so heavy - but he makes no show of it, staring at something on the floor. Maybe the bed. Sherlock hates what the painkillers are doing to him and makes a note to heal as quickly as possible.

He consciously decides to speak. He appreciates how easy it normally is now that he can't seem to manage to get his jaw or his vocal chords to work properly. It takes a few tries and winds him. Winds him, lying down on an uncomfortable cot that he may as well be a part of. "John."

"You ought to come with a warning label," he says. He'd been waiting for this. He sounds irritated and... and... Sherlock angrily wrestles with his addled brain. He squeezes Sherlock's fingers, but doesn't have to take ahold of them. How long has he been sitting there, holding Sherlock's hand? "Warning: When he says he plays violin when he's thinking, know that he thinks at two in the morning and doesn't tend to stop until you've got to get up for work. Know that you will never, ever be able to keep food in the flat because he's filled everywhere you might keep it with experiments. Know that he's prone to faking his own suicide and letting you think it was real for three years because he's a bloody idiot who thinks you need to be kept safe. Know that he'll drag you into dangerous situations while you're on a case that has nothing to do with you and you won't mind a bit. Know that you'll willingly save him when he's being the absolute stupidest clever person you'll ever meet. Know that you might become more clever from prolonged exposure. Know that you'll want to be more clever, for him. Know that he'll... he'll become your best friend without even trying."

"Feelings," Sherlock mutters, or he thinks he does. Everything is getting so hazy; another wave of drugs hitting his bloodstream, perhaps. But not Johns words. He puts them in a safe place, where he'll never forget.

Because John's never said anything like this. Knowing him, he likely never will again. He put so much effort into wording it just so, imperfectly perfect. The extended metaphor is a bit heavy and Sherlock doesn't care. It's all so sentimental, and Sherlock doesn't care.

Because he knows John forgives him as he never should have.