Hamish awoke to a strangled cry from the next bed. His eyes fluttered open and took in Will's white, sweaty face. His chest rose and fell rapidly in the soft light from the window. Hamish waited for his breathing to slow and watched his growing Adam's apple bounce.

The nightmares were growing worse.

After a moment, Will felt eyes on him and turned. His cheeks grew paler at the look on Hamish's face.

'I can't sleep,' Hamish offered. The responding flush of gratitude almost made him cry.

Will scooted back against the wall and lifted his well-loved quilt. Hamish clambered out of bed and crawled beneath it, snuggling against his brother. He listened to Will's hammering pulse.

'I don't like the dark anymore, Mish.'

'I never liked it.'

'You're much smarter than me.'

Hamish wished Will knew that wasn't true, that Hamish might read more but Will was always the one with the clever schemes and quick thinking. 'I like it even less now.'

Will sighed, his eyes searching the ceiling. 'I'll never like it again.' Hamish decided he didn't care that Will was too old for such things and wrapped an arm around him. Will clutched it gently. Outside the window, a passing stranger laughed.

'Mish?'

'Yeah?'

Will swallowed again. Hamish craned his neck to watch the slow parade of emotions that crossed his brother's face. 'Please don't tell Papa.'

Hamish curled closer, tucking his head under Will's chin. 'He wouldn't like it.'

'I know. I just want a chance to sort it out myself before I make him worry.'

He nodded. 'I won't say anything.' Will gave his arm a companionable squeeze. 'Dad's bound to figure it out.'

Will hesitated. 'I know. I think he already has.'

'I think so, too.'

Will sighed. 'Well. That's Dad, isn't it?'

Hamish smiled and settled against his collar. 'That's Dad,' he agreed.

A floor below, their father wasn't sleeping either.

Four months should be plenty of time to recover. It certainly had been for the number of dreadful things that came before. Yet here they were, still knee-deep in all of it. Will was having nightmares and Hamish was always standing a bit closer to him than was necessary. John was watchful and twitchy and not eating as much as he should, one ear cocked to the door, one hand close to his waistband, the creases above his brow and at the corners of his mouth growing deeper by the day. And he wasn't sleeping himself. The surgeon had said he needed to sleep. Strange how something that had never held any import in his life could be such a clear indication of his uneasiness.

Eleven years. It wasn't anything new, the knowledge that Moriarty was nearby and content to postpone their meeting until Sherlock let his guard down. The man had blown his own brains out and still managed to show up and lead him on a miserable chase. Sherlock remembered the odd gratitude that had filled him on that day so long ago: sitting rigid in his too-comfortable aeroplane seat, knowing he was on his way to his (actual, real, in-the-ground-and-never-ever-coming-back) death, John's awkward, strained chuckle echoing through his head…and then the call. The game was on once more. And he didn't have to leave him again after all.

He'd been thankful. He hated himself for that but it was true. He'd allowed Moriarty to toy with him and run him ragged and evade capture because Moriarty had rescued him. Those dark, demented eyes and that delighted smile when they'd finally met once more, he knew the bounds of his gratitude. He knew Sherlock owed him now. He would expect to be repaid. And he didn't mind waiting at all.

Eleven years. The debt of a boy's lifetime. A debt that demanded collateral.

He was out there now, somewhere, hidden and quiet and laughing to himself. And Sherlock had no idea where to look. Sherlock had no idea how to keep them safe. It was tearing them all apart.

Mycroft had wanted to put them into protective custody, take the boys someplace far away and keep them safe from the ticking bomb that was their father. But John-wonderful, trusting, exceptional John; his companion, his best friend, his conscience and humanity and every good and righteous thing in this godforsaken world-John had looked at his brother and smiled. It was a smile Sherlock loved and feared: tight-lipped and collected and humourless; the smile that stated as clear as day that the mountain was awake and the villagers ought to evacuate now or there would be no survivors.

'Mycroft,' he'd said, quiet and deep in his chest, sending a thrill up Sherlock's spine that he would make a point of discussing at length once his brother had cleared out and the boys were in bed. 'Please suggest that I can't take care of my family again. I would love to see what happens.'

So they kept together. That was the most important part, of course. But now that they were together and would stay together, everything was still crumbling around him. He didn't know what to do. Would he ever know again?

He felt warm, moist lips at the juncture of his jaw and neck and couldn't resist sighing. John nuzzled behind his ear. He cleared his throat. 'How did you know?'

'That you were still awake? Easy: I didn't feel like I was kipping with an enthusiastic octopus.' He was smiling. How did John always make him smile? The world was ending; he shouldn't be pleased in the least. 'You're thinking too much again, aren't you?'

'No such thing.'

'Mm. There is. You're very good at it.'

'Will's having nightmares.'

'I know.'

'So are you.'

'Yes. I have them a lot.'

'Not anymore. Not before.'

'I have a history.' John's thumb found his bottom lip and he realised he'd been chewing it. He sighed, his teeth closing down on the digit just above John's nail. His skin tasted like toothpaste tonight. John curled in closer, his head resting on Sherlock's shoulder. 'What is it, love? You've been off in your head for days.'

'I know.' John's hand shifted away, tracing the line of Sherlock's jaw. Sherlock swallowed and wondered if he'd possibly gone mad. 'Do you remember what we talked about in Brussels?'

'We talked about a lot of things.'

'Yes, but do you remember the thing we discussed?'

He could almost hear John's brow furrow. He held his breath. John's fingers slid around to the side of his neck as his face came into view: perplexed and amused and just short of believing. 'Are you talking about what I think you're talking about?'

Sherlock gazed at him a bit too long. 'This is a very inefficient conversation.'

'Jesus Christ-' John sat up, turning to face him head on. 'Sherlock, are you talking about when you proposed to me?'

'I believe you proposed to me-'

'Are you talking about our proposals?'

'Possibly?'

'That's very helpful, thank you.'

'We should get married.'

John gaped. 'What, now?'

'As soon as possible, yes.'

'Why?'

'What?' he sneered, 'What do you mean, "why"? You wanted to do at one point!'

'Why now, Sherlock?'

'You know why.'

He rolled his eyes; never a good sign, but at least he was smiling. Things were better when John was smiling. 'I have a guess, yes, but I'd appreciate elucidation all the same.'

Sherlock sat up on his elbows and took a breath. John was making a point of being patient and it was both endearing and extraordinarily irritating. 'I can't lose you again, John. Yes, I know, you're not going anywhere; don't look at me like that. But all the same, this would sort of, well, make it official. And legal, I guess. So there wouldn't be any questions. About things. If things arise.'

John's eyes were dancing in the dim light from the street. 'You're really rubbish at this when you're not drunk. You do realise that, don't you?'

'Yes, and you're making it much easier, thank you.'

John chuckled, rough and warming. 'So by "things", do you mean…what? Guaranteed conjugal visits once you finally get arrested?'

He rolled his eyes. 'The will, the trust, hospital rights, avoiding any unforeseen guardianship issues with the boys-'

'Sherlock.'

'It would be the responsible thing to do. I thought you went in for that sort of thing.'

'Sherlock.'

'I just- I need to know that our affairs are in order.'

'So this is just to make legal matters easier?'

'Don't be absurd.'

'You're being absurd.'

Sherlock closed his eyes. He was going about this all wrong-he was very aware of that-but the right words seemed to be stuck somewhere, lost forever. He lay back against the pillows and tugged John closer, rolling to his side and tangling their legs together. John's smirk was half-cocked and gorgeous. 'I know I'm cocking this up, John. I don't mean to be.'

'I know, love.'

'I want to, though. I want to marry you. I want it on paper and filed away somewhere that there's only one person in the world to whom I belong and I was clever enough to find him. I want an official record that we're partners, legally, and it will take a lot of paperwork and unpleasantness to change that fact. I want to feel utterly ludicrous in a room full of too many people just so I can prove to everyone we know that I did something right for a change. Because I did do something right, John, and I still have no idea how I managed it, but you're here and our sons are upstairs and a lunatic just tried to take them away from us and take me away from you, and the only thing that makes any of that marginally tolerable is the fact that I keep waking up from these horrible dreams and you're still in bed beside me. And, honestly, if we have to endure all of that wretchedness anyway, the very least we're owed is a ridiculous certificate saying that we're still here and we're united and there's not a damn thing Mycroft or Moriarty or anyone can do about it.' John cupped his cheek, and Sherlock couldn't decide if he was going to laugh or cry. 'I cocked it up again, didn't I?'

'Shut up.' John kissed him, his body rolling flush against him, fingers tangling in his messy curls. 'Yes; of course yes, you stupid git.'

'Really?'

'Absolutely. You'd be lost without me, for God's sake.'

'I would be. I'd be completely doomed.'

'Can't even say a proper proposal. You're an idiot.' Sherlock laughed into John's mouth. 'Why on Earth do I love you so much?'

'I don't know, John. I honestly have no idea. Please don't ever stop.'

'Never. You know how much paperwork bores me.' Their lips found each other again, and Sherlock drank him in until they were both breathless. 'When?'

'Soon, please. Before I can cock up enough to change your mind.'

'Stop saying "cock". It's distracting me.' If Sherlock were not incapable of such things, he would say that John's command made him giggle. John simply grinned harder and nipped his lower lip. 'We should tell the boys. They'll die of shock.'

'We can always make some more.'

'No. No more. After this, I'm not sharing you with anyone.' Sherlock's kiss was sloppy and joyful. John laughed. 'You're mad. My mad genius. I'm never letting you go again.'

'I love you.'

'You're clever like that. God, Sherly, shut up. I've got much better plans for your mouth.'