Disclaimer – I don't own any of the characters or situations. Nor do I own the song or lyrics. I have borrowed everything and hope that the true owners will forgive my presumption.

Warning – a little strong language.

Speak Your Heart

Dr John Watson closed the door, climbed the seventeen stairs – slowly – walked through to the kitchen and placed the carrier bag of groceries on the table along with his keys, phone and wallet. He sighed sadly that he was able to do that – to use the kitchen table at all and not to have it covered in Sherlock's experiments. The kitchen table had been clean and useable for one year and two months. John wasn't sure how much longer he could stand it.

He stowed the groceries in the cupboard and fridge – no body parts to avoid or noxious smells – and turned as he started removing his coat.

Sherlock had always said that John was a lousy actor, unable to keep his emotions off of his face. If only Sherlock could see him now … if only! The world believed that John Watson had moved on, got over the suicide of his friend THAT HE HAD BEEN MADE TO WATCH! This is what John wanted the world to believe. His carefully schooled features gave nothing away as he went about his quiet life. His hand shook slightly and his leg throbbed after surprisingly little exertion, but to the world John Watson was OK.

In reality Dr John Hamish Watson was slowly drowning – a bit not good for a soldier who fought in the deserts of Afghanistan.

The emotions and memories consumed him in the quiet times. He was a soldier, used to fighting every moment he was away from base, so that's what he did with his emotions. He treated every second he was away from 221B as a military mission and every person he encountered as a hostile, requiring constant emotional vigilance. It was tiring, constantly being on high alert, but it kept the hand tremor, leg pain and pitying questions at bay. It was the quiet times, when he was on his own with his thoughts that he drowned in the memories of his life before – those two shining years of chases, kidnappings, crime fighting and the threat of sudden death. Those two shining years living with the brilliance that was Sherlock Holmes.

Each night he lay in bed and, after placing his glass of water on the bedside table, and setting his alarm clock, he stroked the barrel of his Browning with tender affection before switching out the light.

There was only one reason why John was still drowning and why he hadn't used the Browning, or run a nice warm bath and OD'd on sleeping pills (less mess and smell for Mrs Hudson – much more polite!). It was the damn phone bill.

John knew that Sherlock had his mobile on the roof at Barts, obviously because he not only saw it but spoke to him on it. But when Sherlock's possessions were returned there was no phone. John enquired as to its whereabouts, but no-one could give him an answer. It was a trivial detail and he should forget it, and for a while he did.

Then one day he was in the supermarket and couldn't remember if there was milk in the fridge so he texted Sherlock.

Is the milk in the fridge OK? – JW

He felt like such a fool, forgetting like that. Oh well, the message would get bounced soon enough, or that little tick would fail to appear indicating it hadn't been delivered. But the little tick did appear, and no-one texted back asking who the bloody hell he was texting them about milk.

That was when it dawned on John, and a strange new ritual of hope began. The number was still active and didn't appear to be reassigned. That meant someone was paying the bill (all Sherlock's affairs had been wound up with Mycroft's usual efficiency including his bank account – there shouldn't have been any way to pay the bill.) John threw caution to the wind and began texting.

It made him feel better each time he hit send. The messages were nothing important or even particularly intimate to the casual observer, just comments on his daily existence – it wasn't a life. If the number had been re-assigned they'd be enough to piss someone off eventually and they'd reply or change their number. But what if – WHAT IF!

John could live with hope.

Crap day at the surgery. 'Flu season. Keep warm – JW

Beautiful day. Sun is shining. Hope it is shining on you – JW

Mrs Hudson made scones, yum - JW

Saw a fox in the bins – JW

Had a pint with Greg. He's OK – JW

WHY? - JW

And so continued, once or twice a week for months. Sometimes, when it was really bad, John would send a flurry of texts over a couple of hours.

Curiously, when that happened one of his friends would always call or knock on his door. Sometimes Greg, usually Molly or occasionally Mycroft. With Greg it was normally because Mycroft had hassled him and he needed a beer. Molly was just, well, Molly.

Mycroft was a git and John hadn't forgiven him for his part in his friend's … situation. He did take some fleeting schadenfreude in that Mycroft had been well and truly played by Moriarty, and to give him his due he had worked tirelessly to clear Sherlock's name, restore his reputation and salvage Lestrade's career.

The first building block of that had been the release of the conversation between Moriarty and Sherlock on the roof at Barts. That made it clear that Rich Brook was a character and that Moriarty really was the conniving, evil psychopath Sherlock claimed. Sherlock must have called Mycroft and left the line open throughout the confrontation. The recording included the threat to Mrs Hudson, Greg and John and the ultimatum Sherlock was faced with. It also made it totally clear that Moriarty committed suicide and was not shot by Sherlock as Anderson and Donovan had claimed with such glee – allowing personal animosity and wishful thinking to over-ride the evidence.

John understood why Sherlock made the decision he did, he'd been left with no choice. To protect those he loved (high functioning sociopath my arse) or to know that his own desire for self preservation had killed them.

What John couldn't understand was why Sherlock had pushed him away, even at the end. Why he'd lied to John, tried to make out he was a fraud, tried to destroy all that they had built.

That was what kept John awake at night. Watching his friend fall, after leaving him with a viper's nest of lies.

Why did Sherlock lie? Why did Sherlock try to break his heart?

John sat bolt upright in bed. His heart – that was why. It had never struck John before that perhaps Sherlock was not only trying to protect him physically but also emotionally. To make John hate Sherlock so that he could rebuild his life the way they had always discussed over quiet pints in the pub. Sherlock would retire to Sussex and study bees while John would have a wife, 2.4 kids, house, dog.

Stupid git! This was why John always dealt with the emotional stuff. Sherlock had always been crap at emotions so why did he think that he could play with John's? That was never going to come out well.

Stupid arsing adorable git!

Sherlock and his stupid deductions. He was so sure he had worked John out at the start he hadn't realised that John was no longer quite as heterosexual as he claimed. John hadn't suddenly foregone the charms of the fairer sex and certainly felt no attraction to the male of the species in general, but there was one who had worked his way into his life and had taken up permanent residence in his heart to the exclusion of all others.

John had worked out his feelings and had his sexual re-alignment months before – everything. He'd realised that he couldn't tell Mr "Married to his work", nor would he want to. Why ruin a perfectly good thing? He continued to date as before, but they were pale shadows of what should have been – pleasant enough and fulfilling of a physical need, but not right. Only one person set John's soul on fire and now that damn phone kept John's hope alive that one day … one day!

-0-0-0-

Douglas Adams once wrote that, by some strange cosmic mystery, all music in a car will eventually morph into Queen's Greatest Hits. It seemed that this had also happened to John's music collection on his laptop.

He'd got home from a particularly bad day at the doctor's surgery, so he thought a little music to help unwind while he made something to eat. Feeling maudlin he though some violin piece, perhaps one of soothing one's Sherlock used to play. He had an album set up of all Sherlock's favourites and he thought he'd clicked on that as he turned and walked into the kitchen.

He realised his mistake as soon as the gentle sounds of Brian May's acoustic guitar began to drift over the speakers. He set down the ingredients he'd taken from the cupboard and made to turn towards the laptop to change the track. Then Freddie Mercury's mellifluous voice began its lilt.

The first line halted John in his tracks. As the song continued, he sank to his knees and the tears began to flow. He wasn't sobbing so much as water was running freely down his face.

The next text John sent to Sherlock's phone simply read Please listen – JW and gave a url

-0-0-0-

Vinnie Ferrandini sat in a fleapit hotel in Chicago. He'd been there a month. He rarely spoke to anyone and no-one knew his business, but his whole demeanour screamed "don't fuck with me if you wanna keep breathin'" so the other wary and abused residents gave him and his stuff a wide berth.

Vinnie had been a busy boy. He knew that his ordeal was nearly over. He hoped that, once this was over, he had somewhere to go. He yearned for his home. He yearned for the warm smile of his … friend.

He had never realised just how much he had come to rely on that smile. Emotions were not his area and if anyone asked he claimed to be a high functioning sociopath, but in his time away he'd come to realise that squashing down and ignoring his emotions to avoid the pain and rejection of his youth was not the same as sociopathy – not the same at all.

Vinnie pulled out his phone – a cheap burn phone he'd purchased when he arrived in the city, just twenty seven hours after Vinnie Ferrandini of New York City had come into being. In just fifty seven minutes he would send a text that would destroy the final part of Moriarty's carefully constructed web of crime, and ten minutes after that Vinnie Ferrandini would cease to be.

Vinnie took a deep breath and thought of what to do to kill the remaining sixty seven minutes of this life.

He heard a quiet ping. His other phone. The only connection to his real life.

Mycroft had told him to keep it as it was totally clean and untraceable – spook technology could be a godsend sometimes. It allowed Sherlock to maintain communication with the only two people on the planet who knew he was alive – Mycroft and Molly. If he could have kept Molly out of this he would have, but she was the only one who saw, the only one in those desperate moments who could help, and the only one who cared enough to keep an eye on John. Mycroft would look out for his physical safety, but Molly kept a close eye on his emotional state.

She'd warned Sherlock that John was not looking good after the fall. That he wasn't coping well and she was worried. Mycroft stepped up his surveillance, gaining an angry dressing down and a punch on the jaw from an irate John.

Sherlock was concerned that John had stopped dating. He had assumed that, after his declaration before he fell that John would turn his anger and frustration into a need for carnal relations and that this would in turn lead to John meeting the right woman and achieving his dream of a wife and children. He had felt pangs of jealousy at the idea of his John rebuilding his life, but he knew what was for the best. There was no future in their relationship and, no matter what Sherlock himself desired (a certain ex-army doctor with a penchant for wool), it was only John that mattered. John had to live and have the life he wanted and Sherlock needed to do everything in his power to make that happen.

Molly's growing concern over John's wellbeing was a worry and distracting him from the task at hand. Had he miscalculated? Had he misunderstood John's desires? No, he'd deduced correctly. John was straight and, whilst close to his best friend, his grief would soon wane and he would begin to rebuild his life.

Then, one day a text arrived.

Is the milk in the fridge OK? – JW

Sherlock was curled up in a freezing train carriage on his way to Belgrade when his phone pinged. Not Gunther Schumann's burn phone (the name in his passport), but Sherlock's totally untraceable phone. Sherlock grinned and the burdens he carried felt a little lighter.

And the texts continued, keeping him alive and giving him the strength to continue on his mission.

He knew when John was having a bad time when the texts came thick and fast. A quick text to Mycroft or Molly would flag up the problem. Mycroft could be relied upon to drop subtle hints or just badger the hell out of Lestrade until he needed a beer so badly he'd turn up on John's doorstep, or Molly would call Mrs Hudson, or pop round herself.

Now, after fourteen months of pain and a daunting array of personas the end was getting close. In just forty five minutes he would send the text to the Chicago PD and the FBI that would see the final piece of the puzzle crumble into dust. All the supporting legs had been carefully removed and like some children's game, one final push would send the whole thing crashing to oblivion.

Sherlock picked up his own phone and saw it was a text from John. Well he had time. He had forty five minutes before he could send that final text. Then it would be over. Vinnie Ferrandini would disappear and Sherlock Holmes would return to his old life and reconstructed reputation in London. John would never forgive him. He was prepared for that. After the things he had done he felt sure John would walk away. Even though Sherlock had fought a war, and John understood that war demanded unreasonable actions and the sacrifice of personal morals, Sherlock doubted John would forgive what had been done to him or what Sherlock had become. Why should he? It's not as if their friendship was rooted in anything more than gratitude and admiration, at least on John's part.

Perhaps, in a few years he would retire and keep bees.

Sherlock opened the text, expecting one of John's usual rants about work, crap TV or possibly Mycroft's latest visit.

Instead he read Please listen – JW followed by a url

Confused, Sherlock thought to ignore the text, but it was not as if he had anything better to do for the next … forty two minutes. Sherlock opened the link.

He heard an acoustic guitar, well played by someone with talent. The sound quality was not brilliant over his phone, but good enough. Why had John sent him a link to guitar music? He listened intently, his fine musician's ear detecting the gentle stirring of the composition, then he detected an intake of breath – a man was about to sing.

"Love of my life - you've hurt me
You've broken my heart and now you leave me
Love of my life can't you see
Bring it back, bring it back
Don't take it away from me
Because you don't know -
What it means to me

Love of my life - don't leave me
You've stolen my love and now desert me
Love of my life can't you see
Bring it back, bring it back
Don't take it away from me
Because you don't know -
What it means to me

You will remember -
When this is blown over
And everything's all by the way -
When I grow older
I will be there at your side to remind you
How I still love you - I still love you

Hurry back - hurry back
Don't take it away from me
Because you don't know
What it means to me"

As the song ended Sherlock realised that his face and shirt where wet from copious tears. Now he understood. How could he have been so very wrong? How would he ever make this up to John? He hoped that he could. The timing of the text gave him hope that it was not too late.

Sweeping round the room, Vinnie collected all of his stuff and stuffed it into his holdall, careful not to dislodge his fake fingerprints. It was time.

He sent the text to the relevant authorities, then left the room without a backwards glance. He left the hotel and walked down an alley past the garbage truck that was just reversing in to empty the dumpsters. Vinnie Ferrandini, his fake fingerprints, possessions and his burn phone all went into the back of the truck. Pulling a coat and cap from their hiding place behind the dumpster a silent figure walked out on to the street and disappeared from view.

Two days later an elegant man with gelled back hair, expensive but discrete jewellery and a tasteful choice of designer clothing, shoes and accessories stepped from first class on the flight from Montreal as it disembarked at Heathrow. His appearance and demeanour had the easy arrogance of extreme wealth. His passport declared him to be Peter Ansermier, a banker from Geneva.

As he cleared customers, a black clad chauffeur approached him and led him through to a black limousine. Luggage was already being stowed in the boot.

Peter slipped into the seat as the chauffeur closed the door with due deference.

"How is he Mycroft?"

"Better. Almost cheerful. Like he knows something." Mycroft glanced at his brother suspiciously. "Sherlock, what did you do?"

"Nothing …" Sherlock returned his brother gaze, a sheepish smile twitching his lips "… much."

-0-0-0-

It took Sherlock Holmes just three hours to re-emerge. He had showered and dressed in Mycroft's apartment. Mycroft's valet and sometimes paramedic had checked and re-dressed the deep gash on his left side, and checked that no other injuries were of concern. Sherlock knew that, if all went well, he would be given a very thorough medical examination and his wound would be re-dressed again in just a few hours time. He had never enjoyed being prodded, poked and treated when he was injured, but this time he truly was looking forward to the ministrations of his personal physician.

The journey through London traffic in Mycroft's limousine was irksome and Sherlock was becoming increasingly impatient.

As they pulled up outside 221 Baker Street Sherlock's excitement and fear were palpable.

"Do you want me to wait brother?"

"No Mycroft. You've done enough. You have repaid the debt and I thank you."

"Moran is still out there. He will kill John is he gets the chance."

"I know, but if our plans work as I hope, that matter will be concluded successfully tonight. You have everything in place?"

Mycroft nodded his confirmation. "Give my kind regards to John."

"Thank you." And Sherlock left the car.

He put his key into the lock of 221 and entered the hall. All was quiet, except for the muffled sounds of someone moving in the flat upstairs.

He climbed seventeen stairs and opened the door to flat 221B. The barrel of a gun pressed against his temple.

"Don't move you bastard."

"Really?" Sherlock raised his hands in surrender.

The gun dropped from his temple and was thrown with a muffled thud on the sofa.

"You never took the safety off did you?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows as realisation dawned. "There's always something."

John stood, arms folded across his chest and a sarcastically questioning look on his face. "So, are you home for good this time?"

Sherlock turned and absorbed the glorious sight before him. John looked thinner, his hair greyer, and his face aged by grief. But his eyes sparkled and a smile played at the corners of his lips – his glorious lips.

"Yes John, I'm home for good. If you'll have me."

"You daft git!" John flew at his detective, wrapped his arms around his neck and placed a passionate kiss upon his lips.

"I was expecting a punch on the nose" Sherlock joked once they finally came up for air. "I'm so sorry John, for what I did. I had to keep you safe, but I did it all wrong didn't I."

"Too bloody right you did it all wrong. Shit Sherlock, I thought you'd worked out months ago how I felt. I was trying so hard to hide it so it wouldn't interfere with our friendship, but I was sure you knew. Then you pulled a bloody stunt like that. Don't. You. EVER. Do. That. Again. Do you understand me? If you try to keep me in the dark for my own safety one more time I will kill you. Got it?"

"I can't fault your logic. Just one thing, how did you know I was coming home? Did Mycroft tell you?"

"No. You did."

Sherlock raised a quizzical eyebrow.

John was holding out his mobile phone. There was a text message displayed on it.

Sherlock smiled as he read the brief text he had sent from Chicago before Vinnie Ferrandini 'died'.

I do – SH x

"Love of My Life" written by Freddie Mercury and arranged for acoustic guitar by Brian May. Originally released on the album "A Night At The Opera", but the live version is still my favourite.

My first Sherlock fic, so please be kind. Your thoughts are greatly appreciated