A/N: Still some context pieces, the action impulse driving the story should come up soon – as soon as I figure it out.

'Oh, perhaps I should mention that I'm not shooting Molly?'
'Do people usually assume you shoot the characters?'
'Now and then, yes.' (smirk) -csf

-ooo-

Despite as exhausted as John Watson was – or because of it, wanting to hide it – the doctor had left Baker Street early in the morning to check his work at the clinic.

Sherlock had hardly heard him leave. Shortly after he'd hear Mary coming downstairs to the kitchen, in sleepy clumsy movements, knocking things about. Or maybe she was in a bad mood because John had left so early. He'd definitely be able to milk it for a few extra days off, had he tried harder. Logical conclusion? John was eager to embrace his everyday boring life...

...And to avoid a deeper conversation with his wife.

With a sigh, Sherlock got up, wrapped himself in a silk dressing gown and moved into the kitchen.

'Morning, Mary.'

'Sherlock. John has left already', she informed him.

'I see', he didn't elaborate.

'He's not even talking to me, Sherlock. I mean: John. John's not talking to me.'

Who else?, but the detective didn't correct the woman he knew was prodigal in cold reasoning every day of the week. Every day, but that one. That day she felt she was losing John Watson. Her world was crumbling apart in ways that Sherlock suspected John hadn't even realized, much less intended to impose on her. Surely he hadn't planned this guilt trip on his wife. Anyway John always forgave in the end, because he cared too much about Sherlock and Mary. He had admitted it himself once. But Mary wasn't feeling particularly assured this morning. Her paranoia might even trick her into believing he'd not come back.

When had Sherlock, the least balanced individual in the entire world (in his own opinion) become the Watson's confidant?

Mary was up for anything that stopped John from getting hurt.

She'd do anything to stop that from happening. She had failed. Away from her control, it had happened. Again. The same process. Lie upon lie, all small to start with, till the mountain of carefully crafted lies was too high to climb.

The woman standing in front of Sherlock, in 221B's kitchen, was scared. And it took a lot to scare Mary Elisabeth Watson (née Morstan circa 2012; another name before that, hardly the point).

'John's still talking to me', Sherlock reported, putting on the kettle. 'In fairness, he's not that surprised that I kept things from him. Not exactly the first time. The thing about John is... he always finds his centre. Mary, he will forgive you for the lies, if he hasn't already. He's done it before. Sometimes he just takes... a bit longer.'

Mary rolled her eyes, in the detective's back. So much for a positive pep talk from the world's only consulting detective.

'I helped you, when you came back, Sherlock.'

He knew what it was. A cold manipulative payback time, from a desperate in love woman that had made one mistake too many.

'I remember. I'll talk to him.'

She nodded, as if expecting that answer.

-ooo-

DI Greg Lestrade came up the stairs leading to 221B at the same time Sherlock was getting his long wool coat on, ready to exit. The older man frowned, between exasperation and complicity. 'Sherlock, I've only just arrived. Think you can give me a couple of minutes?'

'I'm going to meet John, hurry up, Greg.'

'John? Is he okay?' Greg worried immediately.

'He's fine. He went to work.' Then, halting on his intense mood he saw the look on Greg's face. 'Well, this time I actually mean "fine", his shoulder is healing nicely. So is my arm, before you ask and we waste all the time in pointless conversations.'

The DI couldn't help but notice: 'If John is fine, and you're fine, why are you trying to go see him at lunch hour? Sherlock, you're missing him already, aren't you?'

Sherlock frowned, almost childishly. 'I don't miss him, Lestrade.' He was trying hard to convey his despise of need and such emotions, it just came out to Greg as childishly pouting of being read so easily.

'Right', the DI pretended to play along. 'And when is he going home with Mary?'

'Today.'

'Look, Sherlock, it's okay if you miss John. You two went through more than any person should have gone through, especially in the last week. You must have grown accustomed to having him around.'

Sherlock was playing all aloof now. With a vague gesture he assured the DI: 'John is an idiot, you should know. You sometimes put up with him as well.'

Greg smiled widely. Sherlock had a long history of calling people idiots, most of them weren't. 'Yeah, right, that's why you became a fugitive of the law to protect him.'

The consulting detective just glared back.

'And you came here because...?'

'Police statements aren't over yet, Sherlock. Want to swing by Scotland Yard this afternoon?'

Sherlock nodded more soberly. He knew how much Greg had risked to help them out, he was hoping those dreadfully boring statements could become some sort of pay.

'Give my best to John, Sherlock. And try to relax, will you? Maybe want to go fishing with me and some buddies from the Yard?'

'Something wrong with the fish aisle in the supermarket?'

'It's not about the fish, Sherlock! It's... Wait, you actually know there is a fish aisle in the supermarket?'

'Mrs Hudson may have mentioned something.'

'Fine, you can buy us some pints when he go fishing, then.'

'I'm not going fishing, Lestrade!'

'You'll go if John goes.'

'John doesn't like fishing!'

'Yeah, he liked it last time. You should hang out with him more.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. John and Greg were idiots.

He'd go fishing with idiots.

-ooo-

'What in the world are you doing, Sherlock? You can't just burst in the clinic, there could be a patient in here!'

'Nonsense. You always end the morning filing the patients charts.' Sherlock was ostentatiously dismissive, as he took a seat in the patient's chair. Frowning, he inquired: 'Why do you work here? It's so... ordinary, John.'

'So are bills to pay, we've been through this before, I recall... Anyway, how did you get past the receptionist?'

'I'm a detective, John!' he defended his work.

'So, you used Lestrade's identification again?'

'He was being annoying', Sherlock admitted the theft. 'John, you don't have to work in a place where just about everyone is sick.'

'Oh, really. What's your plan then?' John rolled his eyes.

'You and Mary can stay at Baker Street. Less one rent to pay.' That was bittersweet, and John tried not to focus on the fact the most distant genius detective in the world actually missed having his former ordinary flat mate around.

'My old room is tiny, Sherlock. And the minute you start shooting the walls again, Mary will lose it.'

Sherlock shrugged. 'I say she'd join me with her gun.'

'Sherlock!' he protested.

'Yeah, I know, I remember, I owe you a gun, John.'

John flapped his laptop shut. 'Forget the gun, please. None of us can get into trouble, getting caught with an illegal gun right now. The press was chewing us up just a couple of days ago, people will remember.'

'When is your birthday again?' Sherlock insisted, as if he had listened to nothing. John knew better, and worked hard to disguise his smile.

'Just get your shirt off, Sherlock.'

'What?' This time the detective actually got caught by surprise.

'You got shot in your arm, Sherlock.'

'Grazed. You were the one getting truly shot, John.'

'It's the same thing, Sherlock.'

'Hardly, John.'

'Just show me your arm, so I can check the healing already.'

Sherlock smiled softly. 'It's fine. A good doctor took care of it.'

John rolled his eyes. 'Are we turning mushy now?'

Sherlock lost his smile. 'Definitely not. Sentiment is for the weak minded.'

'Cheers!' John was sarcastic.

'I was agreeing with you, John!'

Suddenly John's expression froze in shock. 'Oh, not again, we're at it again. As we used to be. Back at when I was in Baker Street. We're... bickering for lack of a case.'

Sherlock's expression now copied John's very closely. 'You're right, I need a case. John, can you get me a case?'

'You're on your own, mate! And don't you dare shooting up the walls again!'

Sherlock got up in an energetic jump. 'Forget the walls, John. If you treasure your Hippocratic Oath, then you'll come with me to Baker Street. I'm Sherlock Holmes, I don't come to National Healthcare clinics, and I believe I was shot recently. If you don't get out of here with the excuse of a house call this very instant, I'll tell the world you're a lousy doctor who didn't even follow up on his own work.'

John smiled at the childish threat. 'What about my patients files?'

'Alphabetic order as a filing system is highly overrated, John.'

Said the man with the colour coordinated sock drawer. The doctor giggled, reaching for his coat and following him. He'd just file those at the end of the day. It was the least he could do for Mrs Hudson's walls.

-ooo-

They set about to a small fish and chips place, packed for lunch hour. Despite the noise that filled the greasy smelling place, it still felt like a second nature to the both of them, to only truly relax in anonymity by numbers.

'Talked to Mycroft this morning, John.'

John slowed his chewing noticeably. Finally he said: 'Kidnapped more people lately, as he?'

'John...'

'I don't have to like being kidnapped every fortnight, Sherlock.'

The detective frowned. 'I'm not apologising for Mycroft, John.'

'You needn't either. He's your brother, that's all. What he does is his choice.'

Sherlock smiled. There was something endearing about John when he was angry. His face was stern, even as he chewed a mouthful of chips. His gaze was dark and set heavily on his plate, demanding respect. But his red ears and pursed lips reminded him of a stubborn child plotting mischief for revenge. And Sherlock was sure to aid him in that, whenever aimed at Mycroft.

'Mycroft had a job offer for me, John.'

The doctor just raised an eyebrow. (That was fast, Sherlock was hardly recovered from his ordeal.)

The detective elaborated: 'A very interesting gang related case. Secret messages, ancient societies hidden from our contemporary world, the lot. Unfortunately, it was in China. I told him I couldn't possibly leave London just now.'

'You've turned the case down?'

'Obviously.'

'Because it came from your brother?' Sherlock sighed. 'Because it was far away from London?' Sherlock sighed again. John tried to understand the way the Holmes brothers worked: 'There was no case?' Sherlock just rolled his eyes, now, but a smirk was emerging. 'He created a case for you?!'

'Yes, obviously, John. Mycroft thinks you and Mary are a bad influence on me, and wants to have me take a break from the both of you.'

'That's... caring, I suppose.'

Sherlock had to agree. John finally realized:

'Mycroft orchestrated yesterday's show with Mary to push you away from me and my wife.' Sherlock nodded, more gravely. 'That was his perk in all that. He couldn't care less if Mary was in the active, he wanted to protect you from me and the danger I brought you in the last case.'

'Probably mostly separate me from Mary, and her past. Mycroft is fairly used to dealing with you, you don't bother him all that much. I've told you once. He's a rubbish big brother.'

John closed his eyes, feeling tired. He was startled by Sherlock's whispered request: 'You and Mary need to talk, John. You know that.'

He shrugged. He intended to. 'Mary lied to me, Sherlock. Yet again.'

'Yes, she took Mycroft's job offer. I seriously don't believe you think that Mary knew it was going to be you in that chair, John.'

With a fast glance at the restaurant area that made John lower his voice into a barely audible whisper, he cleared: 'She's back at being a sniper, Sherlock.'

His friend faked distance, as he noted: 'And for Mycroft, of all people. I did tell her he is the British Government. There were plenty of governments and rogue organisations out there to chose from...'

John sighed. Mary was working for Queen and Country, he got it. If anyone should know about that, it must be a veteran army doctor.

'I just wish she had told me, Sherlock', he still confessed. His demeanour had changed, though. Sherlock's message had gone through.

Sherlock Holmes, marriage counsellor to ex-soldiers and ex-snipers; who would have thought?