A World Upended

by SfumatoSoup

John is relentlessly pursued by a coworker, which all leads to an inevitable revelation by Sherlock. How will John react to this? Sherlock/John Slash complete .

2. Chapter 2

A World Upended (Part 2)

Author: Sfumatosoup

Fandom: Sherlock BBC

Pairing: Sherlock/John

Genre: Angst/Romance/Adventure/Humour

Words: 54,000/?

Disclaimer: I do not own. All Gatiss and Moffat and Doyle. No plan to profit.

Rating: Mature. Nothing too explicit (yet). Lot's of UST.

Warning: Spoilers for all BBC eps as well as for canon FINA, SIGN and EMPT (eventually). All main characters and even one or two OC's. Not brit-picked and self-beta'd so if you see errors or things that need to be changed please let me know.

Status: WIP (10/15/11- ?)

Summary: PART 2: (In which there is alcohol abuse and abundant texting.) In the wake of the bombing, Sherlock refuses to pursue a relationship with John. Things get complex when John weds Mary. Jealousy rears its ugly head, and then of course, Sherlock and Moriarty face off!

A/N: Thanks all for your awesome, helpful, motivating comments! I'm working on part 3, the conclusion, as we speak! Thanks for sticking it out with me!

…

It had taken weeks before John was ready to resume work at the clinic. Everyone he'd ever known had dropped by to wish him well or express their hopes he get better soon or drop him a casserole. Or two. Or three.

Very little did they realize it was hardly his health he was concerned of.

It was like his heart had been torn from his chest and thrust across the room only to be crushed by Sisyphus' enormous boulder.

Sherlock was absolutely resistant to persuasion and utterly impervious; there was nothing John could say, so steadfast was the other man in his decision. And John couldn't keep fighting it.

The man wasn't cruel or unkind or even cold. But he was distant. Removed.

John ached with longing. He had fallen so hard for this man, had been ready to change his entire life, literally prostrate himself to his mercy, willing to give all and receive anything in return and now it was all for naught.

But hadn't he always? There was a part of John that had always been Sherlock's even before he'd been aware of it himself.

For that simple reason, it tortured John to imagine moving out. Giving up even their now strained, tentative friendship.

…

"Thank god your back, you have no idea how bad it's been here without you, John," Sarah explained, "What with the doubled patient load and everything."

"God, I was so worried when I heard, I literally thought for a moment you weren't going to pull through," Amal expressed looking utterly done in.

"Well, I'm back to ease the burden, all," John responded tersely addressing his coworkers as a whole.

Amal frowned, "I want to talk to you. In private in my office."

"Later. I have... Sarah, who do I have next?"

"Rogers," Sarah replied handing John a full cup of freshly brewed coffee.

Right. Honestly he loathed having to talk about any of it. Least of all to Amal who would see through all pretenses and immediately guess at exactly what was wrong.

…

John sat across from Amal in the man's office. He wanted to be able to match the other's look, but it was too concerned—too sympathetic, and he felt his gut tense. Instead he found himself staring around distractedly at the small bookshelf of medical texts, the pictures on Amal's desk, (one in which he had his arm draped around an older woman in a sari wearing a kind smile and a younger woman—his sister, Nisha?—with her hair done up and bright red lipstick complimenting her swarthy, exotic features), the basket of files, the pens, the patient table with a fresh white sheet of paper covering it, the jar of cotton balls, anything but the other man's Goddamned face.

"Wouldn't it just be better for you both if you moved out?"

John glared down at his hands, white knuckled fists clenching out of Amal's direct line of sight.

"You don't want to."

"I… I don't know if I can-"

"-But this… this staying with him, John, it can't be good for you."

"No. I'm fine. We're just friends. As we used to be. As we always have been. I'll get over it. It's not like anything even happened anyway. It's not like we ever firmly cemented anything between us."

"Right. Fine. You do what you think is right. It's none of my business anyway," Amal sighed, capitulating, "For what it counts, John… I'm sorry."

"No need to be," John tried for a tentative, placating smile, as forced as it was it came across rather stiff, "It's fine, really."

Amal nodded hesitantly. "If you ever need to, you know, talk to anyone, John. You know I'm always here for you."

John smiled tightly, resolutely. It would be fine. Really.

…

For weeks, the two men carefully navigated around one another, maneuvering about as if the mere act of touching would scald. There was a strained tension which John couldn't quite pinpoint the cause for, since, really, nothing changed. He still (grumblingly), snarked at Sherlock for the rude placements of his rather more grotesque experiments, and threw himself into the bulk of the housework. It was a panacea of sorts. To mechanically pick up where they left off. Scrubbing dishes, picking up the groceries, blogging about past cases, etc.

With the loss of all leads on Moriarty, Sherlock resigned himself to switching between taking smaller, more trivial cases (none of which John was invited to join), and languishing about in apathetic boredom.

They fell into a silent, (uneasy) agreement, in which the past would remain unmentioned. Unspoken. It was literally all John could do to comply. There wasn't any other option. He'd have to just let it go.

Just move on.

To an extent, it was like that time he'd come home from Afghanistan. As he lay in bed he stared at the top drawer where his Browning was safely tucked away. He remembered moments where he'd just hold it, contemplating.

But that was then. Even if all wasn't as he wanted for it to be, he still had purpose. Even if that purpose was to simply remain by Sherlock's side as his protector. Doctor. Somewhat trampled upon and sometimes erstwhile, tentative friend.

It's all he could be. It's all he would be allowed to be. And he swore an oath of duty, of near fealty to remain so.

And that would have to be enough. Perhaps, if he could convince himself of this, Sherlock would see it too, and they would carry on as before.

…

John walked in that evening after a long day at the office, laying his coat over the chair near the hearth, and sank down into it in exhaustion. As usual, Sherlock had draped himself over the sofa, lounging in a ratty mouse coloured robe. The one with patches where his bony elbows had worn through. His left sleeve was rolled up and John saw sherlock applying yet another nicotine patch.

"Four?" he expostulated, "Isn't that a bit… much?"

"My mind rebels against this utter stagnation."

"Speaking as your doctor, you know this level of nicotine in your system can play havoc with your cholinergic neurons. You could likely suffer neuromuscular shock from toxicity."

"Thank you Doctor Medical Textbook."

"Sherlock Holmes. Dead from Nicotine poisoning due to an Acute Case of Boredom. Is that what you want your Obit to read?"

Sherlock smirked and glanced over at John holding up a patch, "Want one?"

"No, I'll leave you to your own vices, thank you," he retorted, picking up his laptop.

John looked up to sound of the doorbell.

"Ah, perfect timing!" Sherlock sat up interestedly as Mrs. Hudson escorted a young woman into their flat.

"You couldn't be bothered to answer the door yourself?" The landlady frowned as she turned to leave and Sherlock grinned.

"I'm sorry to disturb you at so late an hour. Are you Mister Holmes?" The young woman queried, "It's just that I have quite a problem. I was told you were the best by a friend of mine. I don't have much, but I'll pay whatever you ask."

John raised a brow and sat up examining their guest. She was really, rather attractive in a humble sort of way. Wide, expressive, intelligent blue eyes and long blonde hair tucked back primly. Her small, pretty mouth, firmly frowned with inward agitation, yet she held her slender form with a certain air of dignified propriety. He liked her almost immediately. Sherlock too, seemed a bit fascinated. John leapt from his chair and introduced himself, offering the lady a soother(one of Mrs. Hudson's own) and tea, which she gratefully accepted.

"School teacher. Accent and fashion implies you hail from Edinburgh. This is a family matter I presume. Missing father or some such?"

She looked impressed, "You're every bit as clever as Cecil said you were."

Sherlock grinned, always one for flattery, "Hardly all I can gather from you, but nevertheless, why don't you take a seat and unburden yourself."

She introduced herself as Mary Morstan and regaled her story, while both men leaned forward attentively.

…

As if, presumed, Sherlock whipped John along on the case, for the first time in weeks.

It was definitely one for the blog, and John felt himself reeled in as old times, ecstatic to be involved.

All the time, it seemed as if Mary appealed to John's sense of tender sympathy, and he could barely help from showing it to her. If not for the fact that Sherlock was his regular, cold, concise, unpersonable self, running about with barely a nod in the young woman's direction.

Here she was. Responsive. Admiring of Sherlock's shadow, and not the man himself. She took to John, and it was… enlightening.

She was kind, and brave and John couldn't resist, to some extent, admiring her in return, shuttering out the pain of Sherlock's rejection.

Which is why, at the closing of the case, he was surprised to find himself… for some peculiar reason that utterly befuddled him, not wanting her to leave.

It was as if John couldn't but help latching on to this new, bright point in his otherwise dim, unhappily chilled life. Reawakened by the sense that maybe, he had found someone, if not to replace Sherlock, but maybe to patch a small part of the gaping hole within as if she'd become a sort of bandage for his broken, trodden upon heart, barely beating, and once again, it seemed a bit… revived. And she was amenable. And there. And willing to be that.

For so long he'd thought; been resigned to believe, that that particular life wouldn't be fulfilling. Where he could be simply normal, have a family; all displaced by the rush of being beside Sherlock.

But the man had rejected him on that level which he'd sought a sort of solace, and now… here was Mary.

So, unplanned, without careful consideration, he did the one thing he could think of to keep this small ray of light that had lit him from within, and he proposed.

And she accepted.

…

At the Clinic, he relayed the story to a rather taken aback Amal.

"You did what!"

"Asked her to marry me."

The man sat stunned, bewildered. "You're taking the piss. No way."

"She said yes," John grinned.

Amal sat in silent contemplation, his hand pressed across his mouth.

"Uhuh. So you thought this through?"

John shrugged, grinning, "Not really. It seemed the thing to do at the time."

"And you still think this is a good decision," the man frowned.

"Of course!"

"You don't think this is a bit… I don't know. Hasty? She's not some sort of, er… rebound?"

John grimaced, "Rebound to what? I mean, of course not. She's perfect. Exactly everything I've always wanted in a partner. Kind, smart, caring, witty, beautiful…perfect."

And John believed himself as much as he was able. She was perfect.

She would be perfect. John was adamant. And damn what anyone else would believe of it.

Though he couldn't help… but feel a twinge of anxiety as he considered Sherlock.

Amal's frown deepened, "And you've told-"

"-Going to. This evening."

The man leveled him with a look a concern. "John," he sighed, "I'm glad for you. I'm glad if you're happy. If you believe you are-"

"There is no 'belief' of it. I am-"

"-Fine. As I said… good. Just be…er, careful with the way you inform Sherlock."

John frowned.

"Why. There's nothing between us. Why be 'careful'? He doesn't want-"

"-Have you considered that he may be holding you at arm's length because he's worried for your safety? That he still might care for you, John?" Amal argued.

"He doesn't," John defended stubbornly, "I'm a distraction to him. He needs me solely as a colleague. In no way else. He told me as much."

Amal sighed and leaned back in his chair, running a hand down his straight black locks, which he'd been letting grow long the past few weeks. More from being ridiculously busy than as a style choice.

"So. You've a date set?"

"Tentatively. It's going to be small. Just close friends and family. You're invited, of course."

Amal smiled wearily, "Thanks. Um. I suppose congratulations are in order then? Let's head out for a pint later."

John agreed, feeling relief flood him. If Amal approved, then really, perhaps he had made the right decision.

No. Of course he had.

…

"So… she accepted my proposal."

Sherlock visibly retracted in his seat, shutting his eyes and groaning dismally. For a split second his companion almost looked pained, and John felt his heart stammer in his chest, nearly aching with momentary regret. He tamped it down immediately.

"I feared as much. I really can't congratulate you."

John frowned and leaned back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest, (heart still beating too rapidly), "Have you reason to be dissatisfied with my choice?"

"It's not a matter of being 'dissatisfied', she's a fine woman. If you're going to go about attaching yourself to a mate, at least she has a sliver of cleverness. For once, I can't find fault in your 'choice'."

John inwardly withered. Sherlock's implication that he'd been a faulty choice… hurt. Again, he forced aside the thought.

"And where does this…er, leave us?" John queried, hesitantly.

"I suppose this means you'll be abandoning me."

John scowled, 'as if you hadn't abandoned me, first.' But he refrained from speaking the words aloud.

"I'm hardly abandoning you, Sherlock. She's moving to London to be here with me. She was accepted for a position in a local public. So I'll be here. Anytime you might need assistance with a case."

"Even so," Sherlock drawled, "I should rather be inclined to leave you to your happy marital bliss and not bother to intercede. You get exactly what you need of it."

Well fuck. The man didn't grasp at what John actually needed. He felt an inner resentment boil within.

"I admit, I'm disappointed you've ceded to convention after all, but it was inevitable, wasn't it? I, on the other hand, can maintain my focus without you here, in the way."

Bastard!

"So you're alright with this then?" John all but spat out.

"Of course. I'm glad for you," Sherlock said dismissively, lazily laying back down upon the couch, "Good for you, John."

He had fought so hard against John leaving him and now, he was all but shoving him out the door.

John's head and chest pounded achingly, "Good. Thanks. Then if you're happy for me, I would like to ask you to be my Best Man."

Sherlock, rolled to his side, imperceptibly uttering a strange, strangled, disbelieving response in the negative.

"Why not?" John bit out irately, "You're my closest friend. And you apparently support my decision, so why the hell not stand for me in support at the ceremony?"

Sherlock shrugged, and John couldn't see the man's face, turned as it was from him, "I support your choice. Mary is fine, John, but you can hardly expect for me to be happy of it."

"Why?" John demanded with growing anger boiling in the pit of his gut.

Again, the other man shrugged turning back over to level John with an inscrutable, terse look, masking quickly back over some unnameable inner turmoil and John couldn't help but wince.

"I would've presumed you'd be a bit more logical than throwing yourself into so nonnegotiable a commitment."

Subtextually, John could hear Sherlock's underlying implication. Recalled him saying once, how John would regret forming a relationship that would draw him into domestic comforts he was little inclined for.

Secondarily, implying Amal was correct in assuming he was using Mary as a rebound. As an escape from his clawing need for Sherlock (the other half of himself).

And really, it was as if he was severing himself in two, but again, he reminded himself adamantly that Sherlock had already done so on his behalf, without his consent.

Anger, resentment, rejection and shame warred within and John once again, stomped it all back. Crushing it down beneath his metaphorical cleated boot.

"Still, as my friend, I expect you to support me in spite of your so-called misgivings," John demanded, "I want you at my wedding."

"Mm," Sherlock indeterminably responded.

As he lay in bed, he tried so very hard to be happy. To think of nothing but the winsome, lovely smile of his Mary.

Downstairs, beneath him, echoed out the strains of Sherlock's violin; fiercely violent and discordant then waning off into agonizing, disconsolate and deeply melodic keening. It was as if the man had taken a cleaver to the chest and was bleeding out, and John was motionless to respond. To save him from himself.

John choked back a brutal punch of emotion cloaking over him. It was revenge. That's what it was. His limbs felt numb and tingling with a need to rise from his bed and confront the man downstairs. Suppressing it was wretched, and he nearly wept with it.

It was utterly unjust. He'd been denied and yet, punished all in the same breath.

…

Folks gathered round, and John had yet to see Mary. She'd be escorted down the aisle by a friend of hers from her school in Edinburgh. A kindly, handsome chap by the name of Cecil, whom had earlier, clasped John's hand in congratulations with absolute conviction that bespoke of warmth of feeling. He related to him of a service Sherlock had once provided, and requested that he pass on his greetings which John acceded he would do.

Amal and Sarah chatted away merrily in the corner, and John looked up to where Harry had entered in with her date. A woman garishly and nearly inappropriately clad in a dress which forced the unwilling viewer to perceive of her bountiful cleavage.

John cringed as he glanced a hesitant look over toward Clara (one of his oldest friends whom he knew had made quite a compromise to come knowing Harry would be here). Dressed impeccably, graceful and gorgeous, in spite of her collected demeanor, she wore an expression of underlying pain as she unwillingly acknowledged her ex shashaying about, flaunting the floozy bint on her arm. They shared a brief look, and Clara followed John into the back of the small Church into his changing room.

They embraced, and John could barely keep from holding her to him, smothering his face into her rosemary-scented, loosely flowing, golden curls. His heart ached with the familiarity.

"John," She sighed, breathing into his neck, "It's been so long."

He murmured an agreement as she pulled back, her hands still gripping his shoulders and she leveled him with a softly fond, nostalgic gaze.

"Why do you look so done in?" She whispered frowning with concern.

"I've missed you, Clara. It's been ridiculous. Everything," John exhaled, finally just letting loose his innermost anxiety. It came swirling out before him, and for a moment, he relaxed into it, "I don't even know."

"Typical pre-wedding jitters?"

"No. Not at all," John grimaced, giving himself away. Clara eyed him suspiciously beneath her long, lowered lashes.

"What is it really."

"I know I'm making the right choice, but…"

"But what?" She furrowed her brow, concern lacing her tone. The two sat down beside each other, and Clara straightened his bowtie. "John, sweetheart. Please. Tell me." John hurt inwardly, hating himself for second-guessing himself.

"I can't."

She raised her eyebrows with alarm, "You can't what?"

"It's nothing. Please don't worry about it," he placatingly soothed her, running a hand along her back, "I'm fine. Really. Thank you. For being here. I know it wasn't easy for you to come-"

She snorted, "Oh, please, John. As if Harry could stop me from coming to see my dearest old friend on the day of his wedding. Believe me. Nothing in the world could stop me from being here with you. For you."

John felt a flutter within and smiled warmly at his beautiful companion in her perfectly tailored salmon Brioni. It really had been too long. He felt pained to realize they barely knew each other anymore, and wished he could remedy that in the near future. Though apart of him realized, that their lives had drifted apart and it wouldn't be practical or even logical to reestablish their old relationship. Times had changed, and he couldn't just dump out his problems on her anymore. They just… were no longer running along the same path.

"I hate to say it, John, but you honestly look exhausted. What's the matter? Really?"

John shook his head, "It doesn't matter. I'm being honest with you, seriously. I'm very lucky. I've an amazing woman out there, and I'm surrounded by my closest. Couldn't ask for more."

His innards twisted, crying out their dissent. Clara settled a hand on his face and kissed his cheek, calming him.

"I believe you," she sighed, "or rather, I believe you that you believe what you're saying. Now come. I've a seat reserved to watch my favorite man get married to his perfect lady."

As John stood at the altar, the small orchestra starting up, he couldn't help but glance around the small gathering for a hint of the figure with unruly black curled locks and piercing, unearthly crystalline blue eyes. Of course, he wasn't among them.

His breath hitched as Mary entered, escorted down the aisle. She looked… amazing. He wanted his heart and eyes to want this magnificent, wonderful woman approaching with a shy, lovely smile in his direction.

John's heart raced with anticipation, fists clenched at his sides, so rife with nerves he was utterly still. At any second would those doors fly open? Would he come bounding down shouting his objections? Confessing to all the world that John was his?

He caught in his periphery, Amal, glancing at him with a concerned look, and his eyes darted once more over the crowd. Harry and Sarah grinned up at him, while Clara granted him a gentle, encouraging smile.

He calmed as Mary stepped beside him, and gazed into her eyes. No. He was making the right decision. He nearly sighed with inward relief. Those doors would remain shut, as the other's, inside his heart ought to as well. A new door was opening, and John resolved himself to be happy for it.

All would be just fine. The way it was supposed to be.

(He didn't notice the figure up in the choir balcony overhead, glaring down silently from the shadows as he exchanged his vows.)

The night of their honeymoon was sweet and perfect, and he made love with his Mary, and all was right. It hadn't been overly passionate, yet it hadn't been left wanting either. He sought in her his relief, and prevented himself from picturing any other kind.

As he lay boneless, Mary tucked beneath him, head ensconced within his chest lulled to a slumbering purr of sleep within their shared embrace, he broke down inwardly.

He could almost hear the weeping tones of the violin curtaining about the sitting room of their flat, picturing Sherlock alone, abandoned, silhouetted against the roaring flames within the hearth.

…

His meager possessions wrapped away in boxes, sat upon the steps of 221. It looked as if he'd never moved in at all. Though really, his belongings being few among the strewn clutter of his flat mate, he'd hardly made a dent in the first place, as if he'd hardly made a dent in Sherlock's ever chaotic, larger than life, in reality.

John, setting down the last of them, wearily slumped down upon the steps and Sherlock sauntered out of the sitting room stopping as if stunned to see the evidence of John's moving, full well knowing it was happening, yet still almost… stung. As if it had taken physically, the boxes sitting there, to fully remind him of the solidity of the fact.

"You didn't come," John stated sharply.

"I didn't think it would be wise," the other man whispered. John frowned.

"I would have liked for you to have been there."

Sherlock sighed resignedly, "As I said, I didn't think it'd be wise," He gripped the balustrade as if it were the only thing clinging him, resisting him from moving toward the other man, "I do wish you well, John."

He held his hand out, "Don't be a stranger?" He quirked a grin, and John took his proffered hand reticently shaking it in agreement.

Their hands lingered for too long of a moment; firm, calloused hand encased within the cold slender, long-fingered one.

As John unpacked the last box into his new shared apartment with his wife calmly folding her linens into a drawer, he sighed.

God. (What had he done.)

..
They hadn't spoken in months. Yet mostly, John blamed himself for that. He was too busy with work, with setting up house, with running errands with Mary and making their home and commitment something tangible.

And Sherlock was just an impediment, and John couldn't let him be so. Not anymore. So he lied and broke his promise. He would be a stranger after all. To be fair, the other man had simply dropped off the face of the earth. Hadn't texted or called or made any sort of attempt to contact him.

And it was fine. It was all fine.

Though in spite of keeping himself ridiculously preoccupied, something in him ached ever so, impossible to suppress completely. And Mary—she was amazing. Truly, the perfect woman. Perfect partner. Giving and kind and just lovely all around.

She seemed however, bent on getting John to invite Sherlock around for supper. He had negotiated a Sherlock-free holiday, but that was where it ended. It was right after New Year, and Mary insisted… nearly ordered John to extend Sherlock an offer for supper that evening. And really, he couldn't keep fabricating excuses.

Of course, he didn't really expect for Sherlock to respond to his texted invitation, and was therefore, rather alarmed to pull open the door and find the man standing there before him.

John gaped, feeling winded as he appraised the man. In the chill of the air, his breath swirled out before him, white, like smoke. As if he'd stepped out of a Dicken's novel wrapped up in his long black coat, snow flakes sparkling, caught in his locks, eyes piercing and nearly translucent against the dark of the winter streets behind.

Sherlock quirked a grin, breathing into his hands as he rubbed them in front of his mouth, "A bit nippy out here, I assume you're going to let me in sometime soon?"

Mary came rushing into the front hall, "Oh! Sherlock, so good of you to come! Please come in!"

She stepped past John to escort the man in, taking his coat, brushing off the snow before hanging it up.

"John wasn't sure if you could make it, but supper is just about ready as we speak. Settle in, please! Make yourself cozy, I'll be in the kitchen," She glanced at John, laughing kindly, "Pour him a bit of tea to warm him, would you dear? Poor man looks like he walked all the way here!"

"She's…hospitable," Sherlock quipped as Mary abandoned the two, rushing back into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, I, er…" John tried, rubbing his hands against his jumper, stumped for something meaningful to say.

"Really, all this nervousness John," the man drawled, stepping too close to him, "It's as if we hardly know one another."

John glanced up, warily, Sherlock just inches away, and he felt a trembling warmth flood through him. Uneasily, he darted a warning glance at his companion and looked back in the direction of the kitchen where his wife was merrily humming a Christmas carol.

"We are old friends, after all," Sherlock said in a deeply mellifluous, velvety tone. His eyes were shuttered darkly as he leveled John with an intense look, "Are you going to invite me to sit down, or are you going to keep blocking my way into your living room?"

John choked uncomfortably, flushing and flustered, backing away as if stung, "No. Please. Sit." He gestured a hand toward the nearest chair, and Sherlock, smirking up at John, lowered himself into it.

God, the tension was gripping. John shook it from himself, trying to clear his head as he poured Sherlock a cup of hot, freshly steeped oolong from Mary's small ceramic teapot.

Sherlock took the proffered cup gratefully, wrapping his icy hands around it and therefore catching the tips of Johns fingers in passing. John noticed the flush on the shelf-like cheekbones and frowned.

"You're nearly hypothermic," he accused, "What'd you do, seriously? Walk here?" He looked outside to where the bizzard whipped around curtains of white against the window, fogged with sweat from the heat inside.

Sherlock breathed in the steam rising from his mug, and grinned at John from across where he sat.

"Exercise."

It had been months since he'd last seen the man, and he could tell he'd dropped at least a stone, which on that already sparing frame looked positively beafran and waif like. For the first time, he looked the man up and down, and to John he seemed almost fragile, porcelain, entirely unhealthy, with dark circles purple beneath tired, puffy eyes.

John grimaced. The man was not at all taking care of himself. He wondered if he'd even eaten since John had left.

"'Exercise'? Seriously as if you need any."

"Yes, exercise, John. I'm sure you get plenty of that with the missus," Sherlock leered.

John scowled, "Don't be rude, Sherlock. I'm concerned. You don't look well."

The man pouted, "I'm just fine, John. No need to play nursemaid. I can more than take care of myself without your meddling."

"Suppers up, boys! Dining room. Table's all set," Mary called out.

The two rose up and John swallowed thickly as they took their seats at the table. God, was this promising to be wholly uncomfortable. The silence was so thick it could barely be cut with an extremely well sharpened knife and so Mary took the initiative, picking up the metaphorical blade and carved clean through it.

"So," she said, with a delicate clearing of her throat, "I'm so glad you finally came. I know, what with your busy schedule you kept turning down John's invitations-"

Sherlock barked out a short, abrupt and jarring laugh, and raising his eyebrows, he leered at John with an almost threatening look. John shuddered inwardly with anxiety hoping beyond hope the man wouldn't reveal how John had never actually extended him an invitation before now.

"Oh, I wouldn't say I've been too busy…" he drawled sardonically.

John cringed, "Mary, darling, would you mind passing me the snifter?"

He filled up his tumbler a bit on the overflowing side and took a generous gulp, steeling his frayed nerves. Sherlock glanced at him, overly amused and lifted his fork up to his mouth.

The look on his face was nearly obscene, and John had to keep from flinching with mixed disapproval and arousal.

"This is quite delicious, Mrs. Watson. You're really very talented in the kitchen," he complimented, granting Mary an overtly charming grin. She flushed.

"Oh, well. It wasn't anything. Dear friend of mine's recipe. Steak and kidney pie. Very easy to make. I'll send you off with some," she said flustered, "John, darling, remind me to grab a tupperware."

John suppressed a groan.

After supper, Mary excused herself to the kitchen to wash up the dishes, leaving the two men to 'catch up' so to speak.

Sherlock was almost taciturn as the two shared the brandy. John on his third, overly full glass. A warm blush spreading through him, relaxing him down into the cushions he gazed up dazedly, head swimming, at his companion.

"What are you doing here."

Sherlock furrowed his brow in mock bafflement, "How do you mean? You invited me."

"Why now. Why come?"

Sherlock grinned lazily as he relaxed back in his seat, crossing his legs with easy grace. "Why shouldn't I come see how my friend is faring, settling into his married life? How is it you are faring, John," he asked darkly, looking up from under heavy lidded eyes.

"Just fine, grea-good. Thank you," he mumbled in response, his speech mottled with the hazing effects of the alcohol coursing its way through his system. It'd been ages since he'd had so much to drink, weary of following in Harry or his father's footsteps.

He hated that the man had to look so stupidly alluring sitting across from him wearing that ridiculous beautiful grin, and God, so inviting look. (Fuck.)

He'd thought the distance he'd put between them over the past month would abate some of this attraction, but apparently not.

"I was just informed earlier of a case. If you'd be interested. Might be one I'd let you write up about in that blog of yours."

Mary entered holding a steaming mug of hot chocolate.

"Oh, John! That'd be great!" She beamed, enthusiastically.

John glared up at his wife. Really? Did she have to be so damn interfering? Damn it. She was no help at all.

Not that she'd understand why John was so demurring, God, if she only knew.

No, crush that thought. Fuck.

"Um, I'll er.. I'll have to see, Sh-Sherlock," he fumbled ineloquently, "I'm sort of busy, the-"

"-John, weren't you just saying how relieved you were that the influx at the Clinic had lightened-"

"-Well, with this weather, they're bound to be swarming in, in hoardes," he argued.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow, "If you're too busy, John, I do under-"

"-No. Fine. Yes. Thanks. Love to tag along. What's the case?" John bit out hurriedly.

Sherlock smirked, "A small matter. One of relative unimportance. But if you're so inclined, it does have it's rather more fascinating features, the sort you'd appreciate."

"Ooh! Please tell," Mary begged eagerly.

John groaned.

There was a part of him that blinkered a warning, advising him this would lead down a path he could not, should not traverse.

(Though, Fuck All, he wanted to.)

…

It was almost… just almost like old times. As they raced down the darkened streets, John could barely take account his sudden filling sense of ecstatic relief.

This was what he'd been missing. The thrill, the chase. And Sherlock pounding the pavement beside him, smiling broadly at him. All harmonious and perfect, all tension utterly torn asunder and from within had expounded John full to the brim with adrenaline like laudanum. Blissful, transcendent. Mary but a shadow of a thought, not even close to quantifiable with this... This.

God what was it? Completion?

Why had he fought this? Nothing compared, and Sherlock, like a force of gravity, once again drew John to him. If this could be all it was, it would have been enough. Why had he ever thought otherwise?

Panting, out of breath from running, with eyes glittering darkly, Sherlock grabbed him and slammed him up against the brick wall behind the back alley of an old, abandoned and decrepit tannery of the last century.

"Sherlock! What-" John barely remarked his confusion, before the other man covered his mouth with his own. The warmth was exquisite against the outside chill, and it infused him. Despite all better judgment, or rather, tossing it all out the window, he kissed back, madly, frantically. Their lips bruisingly chasing against each other, and John moaned into it.

God, everything he'd wanted. It was unparalleled. The wispy, ineffectual intimacy between him and his wife shattered in the wake of this absolution.

With tunnel vision, and one pressing purpose, he followed the man as he dragged him back through the gates of their old flat. He pressed him once again against the wall, and John felt shattered to comply, as the other man ground his arousal into his own, thrusting forward. Arms snaked about each other, the man like a bloody octopus, and he was trapped beneath him, as he captured John's mouth once again, beneath his own in a heated fight of clashing teeth (Lord, the man's were sharp like a fucking wolf or shark or something equally as predatory) as they exchanged bitter spit, salty sweat and a bit of something coppery. (God, when had his lip split?)

Oh God. (Fuck!) Consciousness warped through him, flooding him with horrifying awareness, and he tore himself off.

Sherlock gazed at him with urgent lust, dark and menacing and feral, his chest rising and falling with fervency.

"Sherlock! We can't," John breathed, exhaling forcefully as he slumped against the wall. The other man grimaced.

"John. Don't-" he rasped out hoarsely, tortured.

John wished his arousal to subside, but within the heated proximity it pressed obstinately, tenting out his trousers. He forced a hand down, flushing hotly.

"I have a wife. At home."

"Oh please. You wouldn't be the first to-"

"I'm not going to cheat on my wife," he declared determinedly, trying at conviction. At least for his own benefit if not his companion's.

"It's not cheating. Semantics, John. All of it. We had-"

"Sherlock. Stop. The key word here being, we 'had'. The issue being that it's in the past. Something you put there. Not me. I can't," he bit out, head swimming, precariously unbalanced, chest aching.

"I hate that word 'can't'. It's such a fucking fallacy," Sherlock bit out. John cringed. The man rarely deigned to use expletives. "This. It's utterly moronic. To deny, John, I 'can't' deny. I can't fucking try to not want you. Need you," he explained breathlessly, glaring at the other man, "I can't breathe. I can't sleep. I can't keep doing this. You're some kind of drug I can't quit."

John moaned as the man attacked his neck delivering impassioned kisses, biting nips along his recently healed collar bone. He pressed into him, and John could barely help but buck his hips forward matching him reflexively.

He found his hand tightly clutching at his companion's curls and shut his eyes, grimacing, because God. Did that feel just…Nnnf.

"Sherlock. Stop," the words rolled from his mouth and barely held any meaning, any significance as that tongue darted behind his ear, and then inside of it, hot and wet. John nearly came, utterly lost the second the man's hand tightly gripped his erection through the fabric.

He lurched forward, grasping the man's neck and felt, just then, the cold of his ring against his finger.

"Stop. Stop."

He forced himself back, tearing himself away, and throbbed with the separation. The betrayal was stunning as he imagined his sweet, naïve wife back in their flat, awaiting his return. And God. What would she say, seeing in one short glance what those swollen, split lips meant, that fevered expression, the daze of settling completion. (Fuck.)

Sherlock glowered angrily, rife with loss.

"I'm sorry. What happened to me being a distraction? To me being a danger that you couldn't afford to care for?"

"John," he exhaled forcefully, "I can't be selfless. I don't care. I'll protect you-"

John flushed furiously, "I can protect myself, God Damn it. I told you I could. That it didn't matter. That I knew the risks and you pushed me away anyway-"

"-John-"

"-No. It's fucking too late. You cocked up and pushed me out the door, and I'm going to honour my commitment to my wife, even if you can't appreciate or respect that. Some of us, have morals, Sherlock."

"Ever a man of morals," Sherlock sneered unhappily, "You're wrong if you think you can stop this-"

John gaped incredulous, seething with fury, "-What gives you the right to imply that I'm not in charge of my own Goddamned destiny? I say this, here and now, for your sake, Sherlock. Back the fuck off. "

"I was there," Sherlock breathed, confessing.

John faltered, leveling the other man with a quizzical look, "What?"

"At your wedding. I was there."

John's heart caught in his throat as he glared in astonishment, "What!"

"I should have stopped it. I was going to."

"Fuck!" John grit out, "You utter, reprehensible prick!"

Sherlock growled, baring his teeth, and they flickered strangely bright in the darkened hallway, "End it. Come back here. With me."

John shoved himself away, and Sherlock grabbed his arm tightly, twisting him back against him.

"Get. The. Fuck. Off-"

"-John-"

"-You can't just go ordering me to take back my vows because you've fucking decided you've changed your mind. Too fucking late. It's all too fucking late. Fuck you, get the fuck out of my way."

John pushed himself from around the taller man and charged out the door without a parting glance. The wind whipped icily at his face, snow blind, eyes tearing at the cold, but he was already numb to it.

Nearly slipping on the ice on the stoop of his and Mary's apartment, he let himself in and threw off his jacket.

"John-?" Mary glanced up in alarm as he stormed toward her, "What on earth-"

He kissed her, ravaging her pretty mouth, discarding the taste of that maddening bastard he'd abandoned behind, and drinking in her sweet, blessedly, unadulterated purity.

It must have been a small bit astonishing for her as he nearly, fiercely, madly, manhandled her down onto their bed and made love to her, ravishing her, fucking her. Pounding out his anger into her, with sheer hot, white, blinding need for relief. She complied passionately and generously, lovingly and he hated her for it as he came inside of her cursing and shouting.

And then it was over.

The room caved in around him, tipping with dysphoric vertigo, as he held her repleted, gently sleeping form within his embrace, her hair caught in his mouth as his chin rested just over her head, and he tried to keep from holding her too tightly as hot streams coursed down his face.

He hadn't fucking cried since he'd been eight years old, and his father had told him sternly, that weeping was for sissies.

…

It was as if Mary, ever intuitively grasped that something was very much awry. She hadn't mentioned Sherlock once, nor had, much to John's relief, mentioned the rather forceful bit of lovemaking (if it could be called that) he'd inflicted upon her. It shamed him utterly, but she was so perfectly serene and docile and placating. Maneuvering around him as if he were a bomb set to explode at any moment. Feeding him supper and sleeping beside him, holding him nurturingly. It was as if she knew something and couldn't place it quite, but refused to pry, all gentle acceptance and perfectly accommodating.

Much to John's chagrin, over the following two days, Sherlock persistently texted him. He left all unopened, but hadn't the heart to delete them, God knows why. There was a part of him that just wanted to change his number and forget the other man had ever existed.

He threw himself into work, manically, acting as if the world was just stellar. Nothing wrong. Not in the least. With a tempered sort of madness, he drove on. And then he was abducted.

Well, not really abducted, per say. It was just Mycroft's Bentley pulling around as he left his office. The window lowered, and (Anthea? Or whatever her name was) gestured for him to come in. He sighed, complying, and sat down, pulling the door shut behind him.

"Dare I ask what this is about?"

Anthea(?) shrugged disinterestedly.

They pulled into a small vacant lot behind a parking ramp (again? Getting predictable…), and he got out to meet the urbane gentleman leaning on his Poppins'esque umbrella as if it were Gandalf's staff. John smirked inwardly at the reference. (Maybe he watched too much telly.)

"To what do I owe the pleasure this time around?" He bit out.

"Ah, ever so excellent to see you again, Doctor."

"I take it you wished to congratulate me on my recent nuptials?" He queried ironically.

The man grinned abstrusely, "Please, Doctor, I cannot commend you on that particularly quixotic display of poor judgment."

John scowled darkly, "Get to the point. Why am I here."

"I am here to intercede on Sherlock's behalf. You are here to listen to me."

John furrowed his brow, "He sent you?"

Mycroft leveled John with a peculiar stare, "Not precisely… he would never deign to request my assistance, nor would he be particularly pleased to know I'd taken the liberty to do so."

John huffed with annoyance, feeling a headache throb at the corners, "Right. Say your piece, so we can both go home at some point."

"Very well," he nodded prudently, "It's come to my…er, attention, that he is not, shall we say, doing well. Not, that I'm accusing you of having done anything purposefully malicious, simply, I've learned you've been rather…incommunicado."

"Yes. So I have. He's a prick, and I don't want anything to do with him."

Mycroft raised a prescient eyebrow, "…Ah. I see."

John squirmed uncomfortably beneath the other man's scrutiny, "It's none of your business."

"See…" Mycroft cleared his throat courteously, "that is where you are mistaken. Sherlock is my business, John."

"He's an adult. I think he can handle his own mistakes. On his own. Without you're butting in," John spat.

"Come now, John. Surely you don't believe that. He's rather little more than a child. He cannot manage his own emotions. He's not equipped, as we are, to do so."

John snorted, "Then handle them for him, and leave me out of it."

Mycroft narrowed his eyes, "You are the source of his downfall. You've manufactured in him sentiment which he cannot be rid of, and I am here to make you aware that I cannot and will not allow you to turn aside."

"Oh, dear God. Is this a 'you hurt him, and now you must pay' threat?" John rolled his eyes heavenward, shoving his hands in the pockets of his coat.

"Did you 'hurt' him?" Mycroft asked, raising an eyebrow literally up to his hairline, "I wonder at how you've done so."

"As I said. None of your business. And I didn't 'hurt' him. Whatever you think—Mr. Holmes, you've got it backwards."

"He 'hurt' you," the man mused, quirking a sly grin.

John nearly stamped his foot, but refrained, "Leave off. I'm heading home."

He turned to go, thinking he'd hail a nearby cab when the other man spoke once more, "He's in love with you."

(Fuck.) John pinched shut his eyes, stung. He slowly turned back around.

"I'm married."

"As I said, unwise, precipitous move on your part. If you so wish, I could have it annulled."

John gaped, "I do not 'so wish'. Don't you dare-"

"Come, come, John," Mycroft said placatingly, "I will not. I only think that perhaps the two of you could put aside your petty differences and come to some kind of an accord. Surely, you don't wish to see him spiral into self-destruction as he has been doing. I highly suggest you make amends. Explain to him your wish to continue your… friendship. I could make it worth your while to do so."

John glared openly at the other man, "Not interested in bribes, thanks."

"It's not a bribe-"

"Then it's a threat."

Mycroft sighed, "No, John. I am not threatening you, I am… asking you. Kindly. Consider this: would you not, for all of Harriet's desperately hazardous choices, readily wish to aide her in any way if you saw she was in need?"

John frowned, caving, "I… I suppose I would."

"Make amends with my brother, John."

"Easier said than-"

"-Try."

Fuck. This was all he needed.

"I am not saying you have to return his sentiment," the man explained casually, "though I know that you do…"

John winced.

"I am merely advising you to respond to his texts. Or visit him. As I said before, he's not quite well."

"I could see that last time I saw him," John muttered, his heart aching.

"Then do, John, what you know is right."

God. He could barely believe he was taking counsel from Mycroft. Of all people.

…

John sat across the table from Mary as they dined silently.

"John?"

He looked up to match his wife's quizzical expression.

"John, I know you haven't been…er, quite right recently, something happened with Sherlock."

No. Not this conversation. Not right after Mycroft. John mentally kicked himself.

"It's taken care of."

She frowned. "Alright," Mary said slowly, cautiously, "It's just that, I feel like there's been a rift between the two of you, and I feel partially to blame."

"We're fine, and none if, Mary, none of it has anything to do with you. Please don't think that."

She gazed at him astutely, "I would like to think you're right on that, but, John. I'm not… " she wrung her hands anxiously, "I'm not blind. That man, he's…"

She looked at him as if willing John to complete her thoughts, dreaded as they were to articulate. He suppressed a grimace and tried for a calming smile.

Mary leaned forward and propped her elbows on the table, setting aside her water glass. "John," she sighed, "Do you realize he's er… a bit taken with you?"

John cringed and crossed his arms defensively, failing to come up with a proper response.

"I'm not jealous. I know you don't feel the same way."

Fuck, oh, fuck. John wished he had a mirror so he could see whatever expression he was wearing that had made Mary's face suddenly flush pink.

"It doesn't, you know, matter to me. If you, er… have a history."

"That's good of you. But we don't. Not in the least, so please don't-"

"-John," she exhaled with exasperation, "Calm down. I just, don't want to interfere with your friendship. It predates me, and I know how much you… er, mean to each other."

John flinched back as if struck.

"Mary…" he whispered, all but pleading.

God, please don't pull this out of him. Not now.

She licked her lips nervously. "John, I'm just. Don't give yourself a heart attack," she laughed kindly, "I just want for the two of you to… speak again. It was apparent that you hadn't actually been attempting to at all until I forced you the other night, and obviously the two of you had some kind of falling out-"

"-Mary!" John exclaimed shortly, "Stop. It's fine. Like I said, I'm taking care of it. It's taken care of."

She nodded slowly acceding, and they finished their supper in silence.

…

The first thing John did upon Mary heading off to bed, was to open the flood of texts. He did so with trepidation, as his inbox was nearly crammed with the damn things.

John. –SH

John, please. Don't ignore me. –SH

I'm sorry. –SH

I shouldn't have asked you to leave your wife. –SH

I was wrong. –SH

But I'm not sorry I kissed you. –SH

If I promise it won't happen again, will you respond? –SH

You're mad. I know. I'm admitting I was wrong. –SH

I can't let you walk out of my life. –SH

This is intolerable. I can't sleep. –SH

I won't say any of it again. We can go back to the way it was before. –SH

Do you know how wretched it is, how much I loathe sounding desperate? –SH

Fuck all, I am. –SH

I need you in my life. Any way I can have you. Doesn't matter. We can be friends. Nothing more. –SH

I respect your marriage, John. –SH

John? –SH

I'm making tea. –SH

Burnt it. –SH

John raised an eyebrow, (how do you 'burn' tea?)

Hand too, apparently. –SH

1st degree. Ran it under the tap. –SH

I found that striped jumper of yours. –SH

I'm holding it hostage until you text me back. –SH

It smells like you. –SH

…Not good? Not good. Got it. –SH

Maybe that sounded a bit iffish. –SH

John, please RESPOND! –SH

I miss you, John. –SH

Please, come back. –SH

Disregard the last few messages. Delete them. I promise I won't tell you how much I –SH

Fuck it, John. –SH

Do you know that there are over 100 million neurons in the human brain? –SH

Brains. –SH

Ah, phrenology. Bad 19th century science, that. –SH

I wonder what this lump on my head would mean? –SH

Frontal, Temporal, Occipital, Parietal, Cerebellum. –SH

My synapses hurt. –SH

5 patches. –SH

Have you ever noticed your ceiling has water damage in the left hand corner by the door? –SH

I found a Herpyllus Blackwalli crawling along the floor by my head. I put her in the butter container. Did you know she was spinning a web where your bed was? –SH

She seems displaced. Unhappy. –SH

I should probably find her some food. –SH

BRB –SH

Are you sleeping? –SH

It's 3:22. –SH

I think I have a spider bite. –SH

Where did you put the antiseptic? –SH

NM. Found sulfuric acid. –SH

Not a good solution. Burnt hole in table. Plan B. Menthol liniment and baking powder? –SH

No. That's for bee stings. –SH

Bees. –SH

What if I were to move to Sussex Downs and start a honey farm. –SH

You prefer jam on your toast, nm. –SH

Foul reek in bottom drawer of fridge. –SH

Located. Remember those toes from a few months back? –SH

Binned them. –SH

Done with nail study anyway. –SH

Do you think Molly needed them back? –SH

It would have been amusing to send them to her anonymously. –SH

John? –SH

You're probably asleep. –SH

Goodnight, then. –SH

John, it's 7:45 a.m. and you still haven't responded. You're not dead are you? –SH

Knew I shouldn't have let you run off in the cold. Probably slipped on some ice and cracked open your skull. –SH

I hate to imagine your temporal lobe laying out in some street somewhere. That was my favourite part. –SH

Close tie with cerebral. –SH

Spider is dead. Probably ought to have poked holes in lid. –SH

Gave proper burial. –SH

Under the snow, that is. –SH

Said a bit on your behalf. –SH

I'm sure it was appreciated by the egg sac in the web. –SH

Perhaps I ought to remove that. You're arachnophobic aren't you? –SH

Mycroft is bothering me. –SH

3 patches. That's it. I hope you're happy. –SH

Right. Applied a fourth. John where are you? –SH

Lestrade called. Ignoring. –SH

Bored. –SH

Maybe should have answered call. –SH

Should I call him back? –SH

No. Let him call me. –SH

Thinking about getting a bull pup. Saw a listing in classifieds. –SH

Thinking of naming him something droll. That you'd find amusing. Cardiff? Maximillian? Glasgow? Gladstone? –SH

Gladstone it is. –SH

Decided probably not wise after all, since spider died. –SH

Johnathon Hamish Watson. –SH

So quintessentially Scottish. You'd never guess my middle name. –SH

Won't tell you unless you text me back in the next 3 minutes. –SH

Minutes are up. You lose. –SH

Burnt the toast. Giving up. Not good at this. –SH

You're better at it. –SH

Making tea and toast. –SH

Milk also gone off. Tossed out with toes. –SH

John. Please. Text me. –SH

Now. –SH

I'll set the flat on fire. –SH

John? –SH

I wasn't serious. –SH

TXT ME! –SH

Fine. PLEASE will you text me. –SH

I'm trying to be polite, see? –SH

I can't do this. I'm going mad. It's too empty. In the flat. In my head, everywhere. –SH

Just tell me if you're alright before I'm forced to do something drastic. Like contact your wife. -SH

Right. Probably shouldn't. You're fine. You're just ignoring me out of spite. –SH

Please respond. –SH

Nightfall again, still nothing. I gave you five hours. FIVE. Nothing. –SH

I can't do this alone. –SH

Morning again. The couch is horrible for one's neck. –SH

Bored. Couldn't sleep. Watched some inane rerun. One of your shows. Why do you like this crap? –SH

Wooster: I don't know what you've been doing to the cooker, Comrade Jeeves, but I don't seem to be able to get the gas lit. Jeeves: It's electric, Sir. –SH

Mildly humourous. (Mildly). –SH

Funnier when you're around. –SH

John? –SH

Please tell me Mycroft didn't kill you. –SH

He did, didn't he. –SH

Now I'm going to have to plot his demise. –SH

Want to help? –SH

If you don't respond soon, I'm going to –SH

I'll just stop. I give up. –SH

No more texts, nothing. I won't try any longer. I can't. –SH

John grimaced. What was that? Like one hundred straight texts? The phone vibrated in his hand.

(Another one. Christ.)

John? –SH

(Fuck.) He quickly typed out a response:

Sherlock stop. My msg's are almost full. I'm fine. –JW

YOU REPLIED! –SH

Calm down. My head is not smashed open on the icy streets of London, nor has Mycroft done me in. –JW

And I appreciate you getting rid of the spider eggs, though I have to remind you I'm not living there anymore so it doesn't really matter either way. –JW

John. Come at once. I need to –SH

I want to speak with you in person. Will that be acceptable? –SH

Tomorrow evening. 5:30, that work? –JW

Fine. –SH

John sighed and flipped shut his phone, re-pocketing it. Lord, was he persistent.

…

"I think it's probably a bit obvious to everyone that there's something going on between you two. Ever since you got married, which hasn't been that long, John, you've been up and down like some kind of yoyo."

John chased down the rest of his ale, staring down into the bottom of the glass, the bar kaleidoscoped through it, "I'll be fucked if Mary even suspects the truth."

Amal started, taken aback. "Are you saying, John," he tried carefully, "that there is something…er…"

"No!" John slammed down the glass, completely hammered. "Not saying that. Well it was, er, there was a bit. But nothing…y' know. Er. Much of it."

"What…?"

"Kissed me. 'at's all. Nothing er.. crazy."

Amal nodded slowly as John hiccupped, "God I'm so fucked. Y'know he sent me like a thousand texts when I ignored him after it, 'n then his brother said he was (hic) fuck. Said he's 'in love with me'. Gotta a wife, though, y'know?"

"Yeah, I'm aware of that," Amal drawled acerbically.

"Wife practic-practical-(hic) Fuck it! Said he was too."

"I can imagine that was a bit startling," he retorted dryly, "So you're meeting him tomorrow night?"

"Can't be, h-helped. Brother forced me."

"Odd family dynamics, they have. Overly-protective, much hated older brother. God, thank Christ, Nisha is normal. Think I'll call her and thank her for that tomorrow."

"Have to somehow make him see, that this…can't, y'know," John gestured at himself, "h-happen."

"Maybe you ought to ease up on the tap. Think it's about bar close, anyway, John…"

"I don't know what I can say. I-I can't just stop wanting him, apparent-ap (hic), it can't be done, but I can't just, y'know end my marriage over it. I love Mary."

"But you also love Sherl-"

"-Stop. Stoooop," John leaned forward dropping his head melodramatically into his arms, "Just don't. Arright?"

"Um, sure."

"I want to be frie- I need to have him (hic). In my life? Y'know. Not good not having him there. All's awful. Just fucking not even a bit good. But I think, Amal, if we're just friends, it's not going to-to (hic), It's not going to be p-possible for us to remain that way. I c-can't. Can. Not. At all. Even f-fathom cheating. It makes me s-(hic) sick. To think of it. I mean Mary is so…so… understanding. Amazing. I'm such a fucking prick. I hate myself."

Amal frowned, setting a calming hand on his friend's back, "It, er… I'm sure things'll work themselves out, John."

"Thanks, mate. You really are, y'know?" John hiccupped again, "Really, really, a good mate."

Amal flushed, "John really, you're being kind of er… maudlin."

"No! No! I mean it. Amal you're like the, er…(hic) really the best of 'em!"

Amal frowned and helped the man out of his chair. John leaned heavily against him, swaying. "I think it's time we get you back to the missus."

"Right. 'Kay. Thanks."

Amal covered there tab and escorted John out the door, sighing.

…

SHERLOCJ! –JW

A moment later:

John? –SH

I dontg –JW

That made no sense. –SH

I m not f,k- JW

Illogical. –SH

Shuttupq. I'm want to tell yu something –JW

Ah, you're inebriated. –SH

IM DFINE not. just a bit buzz arnd the edgesr –JW

Drunk texting. This is entertaining. –SH

What did you want to tell me, John? –SH

I hatre you. –JW

That's a bit antagonistic. –SH

Stop usink fuckn big words. Myhead hurts we all know ur smart. Gotitt –JW

'Antagonistic'? –SH

Cannt evn fucking read that what –JW

IQ drops significantly with imbibing alcoholic substances. Noted. –SH

Who abandoned you to your own devices with your cell? –SH

I'd like to shake their hand. –SH

Oh cut the shite, Sherloc! –JW

You keep spelling my name wrong. This is far more fun than anything on the telly. Should get you drunk a bit more often. –SH

And then have iur way with me? –JW

There was a silence of nearly an entire minute.

Is that something you'd be amenable to? –SH

Wait what –JW

Never mind, John. Good night. –SH

John stared down at his phone in confusion, before passing out on his sofa.

…

Work was… not entirely pleasant the following day. John's head ached horribly, even after downing the remainder of the aspirin Mary had dug out of the medicine basket from under the sink in their loo.

He nearly died as he scrolled back through his texts the previous night. (Fuck, what was he thinking?)

There was a part of him that was sorely tempted to bash his head against the wall and end it. It was going to be damn awkward to face Sherlock later that evening.

Diane looked at him uncertainly, taken aback by his blanched, ill looking expression, "You alright, John?"

"Never better," he muttered.

…

John stood outside of 221 with deep set anxiety. He tried breathing meditatively for a few seconds and then decided to go for it. No reason to be nervous. Calm, collected, in control.

He reached out to press the buzzer when the door flew open. He was nearly crashed into by an exiting Lestrade, who just about tripped over him.

"Oh! Excuse me, John! Didn't know you were-"

"No, It's fine, how've you been?" John asked stabilizing the other fellow by grabbing his elbows before he tumbled down the steps. The D.I righted himself and quirked a grin at the other man.

"Busy. The Yard's got a possible lead on something, but we can't be sure yet. Had to consult with Sherlock on the matter."

"Something important?"

Lestrade looked strangled for a reply, unsure if he should relate back the confidential information, "We're not sure yet. Hoping it's not what I think it might be."

John furrowed his brow at the cryptic remark, "Alright-"

"-Really, I should be asking how you've been, Doctor," Lestrade interjected, grinning, "Haven't seen you about much since you got yourself hitched. I imagine you and the missus are busy setting up house?"

John frowned warily, "Er-"

The D.I. smirked, "-Any Jr. Doctors we should be knowing about on the way soon?"

John's frown deepened, "Not, er-"

"-Ah. Don't mean to pry," he waved his hand in the air and turned serious, "I'll get out of your hair, I have to get back to the Yard ASAP."

"Right, well. Good to see you."

"Likewise."

John watched the Detective Inspector race out to his patrol car. He nodded out the window at John as he sped off.

"John."

John flipped around startled, to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"Sherlock!" John sputtered.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and smirked, leaning casually against the entryway with his hands in the pockets of his sleek-lined, jet-black jacket. John's heart tripped over itself in his chest, and he felt a slight flush creep onto his cheeks. "Care to come up?"

John nodded, as the man turned away, and he followed him up the steps, wearily. Trying very hard not to watch the man's hips, and that pert, sculpted…

(Fuck.)

They entered into the flat, and Sherlock offered him a seat, which he took gratefully.

Sherlock sat down across from John masking his pleased expression, "I'm glad you've come."

John felt a bit sheepish, "Sherlock, about the er-"

"-The alcohol induced ramblings via text?" he cocked his head, smirking.

"Yes. Well."

"You said you had something to say to me?"

John sighed, "A bit. Yes."

Sherlock sat back in his chair, crossing his legs. He folded his hands in his lap and leveled John with a patient glance. "I presume my dear brother stuck his colossal proboscis into my business, then, after all," he pouted, "What did he say to you."

"That's… er, personal," John defended, "This is between you and me."

The other man nodded in agreement, "Either way, I'd like to speak my piece first, if that would be acceptable?"

John sighed wearily, "Of course. Yes. What."

"I would like to formally apologize for my actions."

John furrowed his brow, "…Right. It's fine."

Sherlock sighed and bent down his head, "It's not 'fine'. I respect your marriage. As I said. It was foolish of me to act otherwise. It was illogical. As I maintained in the first place, I only have wish that we continue our partnership. Platonically speaking, if you still care to."

John was taken aback, utterly baffled, "That's er… changeable of you. What led this on?"

"A revelation of sorts. You're married, and that suits you, and your… contentment is all that I wish," he explained coolly, "That being said, I've reminded myself of my duty to vanquish the ever present threat to your person as well as to many others."

"Moriarty," John stated dumbly.

Sherlock sat forward excitably with a dark, manic expression, "Yes."

"That's what Lestrade was here about then? Some lead he mentioned-"

The other man looked at him considering before he spoke, "It is indeed, but that we'll speak later of. I have some… research to see to. At any rate John, I simply asked you here today so that we could lay matters out on the table, and agree to put the past behind us."

John felt that familiar ache grip at him once more. But no. This is precisely what he'd come here for. To put matters behind them. To re-establish their friendship. Nothing more, nothing less.

John nodded slowly, "Right then, will you er… let me know then, if you could er, use my help in any way with the case?"

Sherlock frowned, putting a hand to his chin, "I wouldn't wish to further endanger you, but, I could very well think there is a way we could go about this where you might prove to be of great use. Without threat to life or limb."

John sighed with relief, grinning, "Great then. Let me know if anything comes up. I'd love to get my hands around his scrawny Mick neck."

The other man genuinely laughed and clapped his hands together in glee at John's declaration. "Yes, well, I wouldn't blame you. Between abducting you and nearly blowing you up, I would rather think you'd feel that way," he paused quirking a grin, "Mick versus Mick."

John scowled.

"First off. Not Irish. Scottish, but more importantly. English," he said defensively, "Got the metals to show for it."

Sherlock nodded, "And the gun."

"That too," John agreed jovially.

"Yes. Thoroughly Queen and Country," Sherlock rose up and stuck out his hand, "Well, then, John," he said matter-of-factly, "I'm confident we've set the books straight, today. And I'm glad we're of agreement."

John stood as well, and took the other man's hand in a firm, clinical handshake.

He decided to walk back to his apartment. It was all very indecisive as to whether he felt reenergized or strangely, ebbingly numb to the conclusion they'd reached.

…

Sure enough, a week later he received a text that ordered John back over to 221B.

Mrs. Hudson opened the door at half past six and hurriedly ushered him in taking his coat.

"I can't tell you what a relief it is that you're here, John. He's been an utter loon these past few days. He's kept his curtains tightly drawn, and hasn't once left the flat. And those policemen keep calling. I'm sure there's something bad afoot."

"John!" Sherlock shouted, poking his head round the door of the flat, "Come up at once!"

John cleared his throat, furrowing his brow, "Er. I'll be right up."

The landlady gave him a peculiar warning glance before fleeing back into her rooms.

Sure enough, the room was dim, without one light on, as if the man had turned into some kind of agoraphobic shut-in.

"Is everything alright?" John queried worriedly.

Sherlock seemed nervous, pacing about, "Fine. Everything is fine. I needed to warn you to stay away from me, and far, far away from Baker street, if you can, until I let you know otherwise."

John furrowed his brow stung, "Then why did you call me over today? What is this to do with?"

"I'll tell you later," he whispered frantically, "I know we're safe at the moment, I've got the Yard just outside. Just promise me you won't try to seek me until I call."

John nodded slowly, agreeing, "Right then."

The man turned swiftly on the ball of his foot, and snatched up a phone. "Take this. The line can't be traced. You'll only be able to receive incoming messages and calls from me."

John pocketed the phone with more concern than ever.

"Now leave. Immediately. I have a patrol set to escort you home."

"Sherlock I-"

The man grinned queerly, and John tensed, "Now head on off. All's fine. Don't worry about anything and don't think too much. It all might clear itself up in a few days. Now off. I've work to do."

John frowned as he was literally pushed out the door.

(Well, that was a bit off.)

…

Over the following week, John had, with regularity, decisively attempted to squash out his fear for his friend as well as all lingering feelings. Sherlock was clearly taken up in something and didn't want John around.

(So whatever.) He shrugged it off.

To distract himself, he'd been more attentive to Mary, working on their relationship. Taking her out to a few nights on the town, wining and dining her. Romancing her.

Yet for some peculiar reason that nagged John, she seemed… distant. It wasn't anything obvious. They still laughed and chatted about their day, and he'd attempted to show her, intimately, that she was all he wanted. Needed.

Whatever it was, John tried to push it aside rather than dwell endlessly. Maybe it was all just in his head.

…

"So…" John furrowed his brow at his wife as she busily packed her suitcases, "You're visiting your friend in Edinburgh?"

"Yes, Elena's mother passed, and the poor dear has no family to assist her with clearing the estate. She was practically my sister in boarding, and my dearest friend."

John frowned, "How long will you be, er… gone for?"

"Not sure yet. Two…maybe three weeks. I'm hoping it'll be only a short while, but it could be up to a month. At any rate, I cleared my absence with the school until February."

John nodded his head, "Right, I'll see you off then?"

Mary grinned, "Oh, John, you're a dear, but I've planned for Cecil to drive me up."

John grimaced inwardly. She'd been rather off lately (and this just proved it)… and now she was running out for a month back home. It had to be more than she was letting on.

Damn it.

…

It was strangely quiet without Mary beside him in their bed. The comforting sound of her gentle breathing, the light jostling tug of the sheets as she'd turn over.

John felt a bit miffed. He knew it was unreasonable considering his own wandering temptations, but he'd made an effort in his heart and his mind to put those aside for her. It jabbed at his pride as his he imagined Mary traveling up north beside Cecil.

Stupid, though. The man was simply an old acquaintance of his wife. Nothing untoward about it.

Then, as if impossible to resist, his thoughts meandered lazily over to Sherlock. There was a fear that nagged him settling into the pit of his gut. What was the man doing? Was he safe?

He wanted desperately to be of some assistance, but he'd been shut out, once again. Was it for his own safety or did Sherlock simply not wish to have him around? Not that John would dare feel hurt by this. He'd been relieved they'd come to settle for a practical, if not rather detached relationship, but…

He felt a dip in the bed on his left hand side, an insinuating warmth settling in close beside him. A hot breath against his neck, the subtle rise of the fine hairs across his body tingling, compulsorily alert. A hand with fingers longer than his own grazing lightly, tracing his jawline; smooth and satiny, speaking of endeavorings of the scholarly variety rather than that of hard labour, yet smattered with small scars and stains on the tips from a myriad of chemical experiments. The slight yellow indentation of a callous between his middle and index from the days of a severe smoking habit.

He exhaled, and the phantom vanished.

'If thy right hand offends thee, cut it off.'

…

Amal looked at John slyly as he entered the break room.

"Forget your lunch?"

John sighed, slightly embarrassed, "I'm so used to Mary packing one for me nowadays…"

"Trouble in paradise?" Harold quipped.

John frowned, "Nope. Out of town."

Sarah laughed, "Creature comforts of the domestic life…"

"What would you know of that Ms. Permanent Spinster?" Amal cracked.

Burned by the jibe Sarah flinched, "I've a boyfriend you twit. Shut it."

Harold raised an eyebrow, "Since when."

"Since none of your business," The physician flushed.

Amal snickered, "Is that a new watch?"

She flushed brighter, "Erm. Well yes. Tony picked it up for me in Brighton."

"Tony?" John inquired grinning.

"Yes. He's a Dentist. We met-"

"-Oh, Lord. It's like a sitcom. Let me guess, routine filling?" Amal chuckled.

Sarah lowered her eyes and smiled prettily, "He's very talented-"

"-Orally?" Harold barked out.

Everyone turned to glare at him.

"Rude, Harold," John admonished.

"Anyway, John," Amal said, looking back at the other man, "you can have a half of my sandwich if you don't mind blackberry jam and turkey."

Sarah grimaced, "Ugh."

"Philistine," he retorted sharply.

"Love blackberry jam. Thanks Amal. Sure you won't be too hungry?"

"Not in the least. Had an omelet this morning, rather filling," he explained, cutting the sandwich in half and handing it to John.

As he took a bite his mind wandered off to Mary. She had called earlier to announce her arrival in Edinburgh, and to remind him of the left over casserole on the bottom shelf of the refrigerator. He wondered if Cecil was there still. If they'd kipped together over night at an Inn along the way. He frowned inwardly.

Just then, interrupting his ponderings, John's phone, the secondary one Sherlock had provided, vibrated from within his trouser pocket. He flipped it out curiously.

Coming by yours when you're off work. –SH

Well then. John just barely resisted blowing a sigh of relief. This would get his mind off Mary. And apparently he was needed after all.

…

John checked his watch for the umpteenth time as he sat in his living room languishing with anxiety. The telly blared, muted in the background, with Indiana Jones cautiously navigating through a booby-trapped black cave. He jumped out of the way grabbing the slim torso of his heavy-bosomed companion.

Still no sign of Sherlock.

"John."

"Sherlock! What in-" John shouted, flipping around, nearly tumbling gracelessly from his seat.

"Close the blinds, will you?"

"Er…what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes quickly racing across the room pulling down the blinds and slanting them down, dimming the room. He snatched up the remote and shut off the telly.

John glanced up in alarm at his rather haggard companion, taking in his gaunt face and bloodshot eyes.

As if answering his thoughts the man nodded, "Yes. I've put you in danger just by me being here. I apologize profusely."

"What are you afraid of?" John queried with barely masked alarm in his tone. He felt the rise of adrenaline wash through his system, and he sat up straighter in his chair.

"Sniper rifles."

John caught a glimpse of the man's bloodied knuckles and frowned.

"How did you get in?"

"Same way I plan on getting back out," Sherlock retorted.

"Is Mrs. Watson in?"

"Nope. Out of town, but Sherlock-"

"Excellent. Then that makes it easier for me to propose a bit of a holiday for the two of us."

John flushed. (What?)

"Where?"

"Anywhere!"

"But-"

"No time."

John frowned, "Then this is a case?"

"Can't explain now. All will be clear later. I've booked you plane tickets under an alias for tomorrow at 5:00 a.m. I've your entire itinerary mapped. Follow it precisely, to the letter, John. I'll meet up with you at the airport."

"But-"

He pulled a bag out from inside his coat, "Oh. Here's your disguise."

John gaped awkwardly as Sherlock raced back out the way he came, and John jumped up following the man, watching as he leapt from his window down a fire escape round back of the apartment complex.

John looked down wonderingly at the ticket reservations in his hand. No sign of where he was supposed to be going off to until he traded them in at the gate. Strange, that.

He pulled out a very sharp Armani suit, Prada shades and grinned before he saw, at the bottom of the bag, a shaggy ginger wig.

John groaned.

…

Sure enough, the following morning, crack of dawn, he padded down the steps with his luggage and hopped into the cab waiting out front.

In a roundabout way, he idly mused what the hell he was getting himself into and if he should call Mary. All thoughts vanished as the cab peeled away, burning rubber.

(What the-)

Ah. Not a typical cabbie then. The deeply tanned, grisly bearded man nodded to him grinning, "Friend of Sherlock's."

John glanced warily out the back window and sure enough, they were being followed.

"Don't worry. We'll lose them on the freeway."

"You're American," John stated.

"Wisconsin born and bred. Used to race up in Kiel back in the day, nice open farmland. Wide open roads and a good ol' cop radar detector."

They careened precariously around yet another corner, and though belted in, John's body slammed against the car door, head smacking against the window.

"Had no idea cabs had such a tight turning radius," John muttered, rubbing his head and righting the ridiculous red mop.

"Not your typical cab, buddy. Got this baby vamped up in the shop with a nice V12 under the hood."

"Um. Right…"

"Yup. Did some mechanics for a bit there before heading off to Hollywood. Stunt driver by trade. Your man Holmes got me out of some trouble and I owed him one," the man smirked at him in the rearview, "Agreed to come over and help him out. Looks like yer all in some trouble, eh?"

"Eh," John agreed.

…

Transferred off to an assortment of even stranger characters, whom, with equal expediency seemed to manage to lose the pursuers, John was now utterly baffled as he arrived at Heathrow. He looked around frantically for a sign of Sherlock, and saw neither hide nor hair. With similar fear, as he made his way through the terminal, he darted his glance about to make sure he wasn't being followed.

Now at the gate, with a last look around, still, no Sherlock. At last, he was pressed to board the plane, which was apparently taking him to Vienna.

As John took his seat, he felt awash with anxiety clutching the vague instructions in his hand. Everything was dim beneath his shades, but he decided, for safety's sake to heed Sherlock's warning, and keep to the disguise.

An elderly Italian priest was aboard, blocking the aisle, painfully attempting to explain something or another to a befuddled flight attendant, neither understanding the other's language.

John glanced out the window as the Plane lifted off from the tarmac. The trees and buildings below miniaturizing as they rapidly gained elevation.

Suddenly, the old man plopped beside him in his seat, looking for all the world wearier than John felt himself.

He shifted over slightly, to give the taller man room as he shuffled his knees over against the seat in front of him.

"John, really?" the man chastised, turning to him, "No good morning?"

John gaped in astonishment as the crinkled face spread into a broad grin, pale blue eyes sparkling brightly beneath a heavily drooped brow.

"What-"

"Shh," Sherlock hushed leaning in toward John, "Look."

John followed his companion's gaze up to a small man with short black hair, clad in a tweed sports coat and wire-rimmed spectacles. He looked like any other young scholarly, Oxford-type professor, but John instantly recognized the other man as Jim. He shuddered inwardly.

"As you can clearly see, in spite of my careful precautions and all M15 intelligence ops, we've just narrowly been missed."

"But he's on the-"

"-He hasn't yet recognized us. We'll keep it that way, if you follow my lead."

"Why can't we just contact the authorities and have the plane landed here and now, get him taken into custody?"

"Not so simple. It's impossible to prove anything on him. His record's pristine and he's laid many a false trail. Since no one has actually seen him but the two of us, it's all circumstantial. He'll get away."

"Fuck," John cursed.

"Indeed," he whispered, "Have you seen today's post?"

Sherlock flipped open his phone and passed it over to John.

"Bloody hell! He set your flat on fire!"

"His agent just barely missed being apprehended, and the Yard is on the prowl. Good thing I sent our lovely landlady out to visit her nephew in Brixton yesterday."

John exhaled nervously.

"You can see how dead set he is on nabbing me. Wants to do it himself. Won't trust his agents."

"It's personal."

Sherlock muttered under his breath, "Extremely."

"What are we going to do?" John queried leaning forward in his seat.

"Moriarty's tracking us by our luggage. I've arranged two fares to Norway. But instead we'll hop a train to Belgium, where we'll wait for two nights before heading off to Spain. But he'll see it as otherwise as our tracking tickets will lead him right to Venice."

John's head swam with the flood of information and he could barely help but spare a momentary glance in Jim's direction. He espied a Bluetooth in the man's ear. A sudden, damning realization hit, like a punch to the gut.

"What makes you think he doesn't have us bugged right now as we speak?"

Sherlock smirked, quickly typing something on his phone. He passed it over to John:

All the locations you've just been informed of are false.

"But the formatted idea of it all is yet intact. So if he is listening in, he won't know exactly what's what."

This was getting ridiculously complicated, but nevertheless, John put his faith in his brilliant companion, hoping beyond hope, that this would work, and they'd somehow manage to escape the man with their lives and limbs intact.

…

As they hopped about from one destination to the next, shaking off Moriarty, John was absolutely exhausted. They had caught four different flights in the last 24 hours, and he'd barely drift off uncomfortably in his seat before the pilot would awaken him with an announcement of their landing. Sherlock, meanwhile, seemed to be busily ticking away the time by studying various travel logs and occasionally perusing through the skymall ads. Once or twice he'd remark about the absurdity of this or that, snort impatiently and attempt to engage Watson in conversation.

As they landed in their final port, John barely knew where they even were until he heard the a couple arguing in French at the gate. 'Bienvenue a La Ville de Romantisme!' blared a travel brochure the flight attendant handed him.

"Paris," Sherlock quipped, darting a quick sideways glance at John.

(Great. Just great.)

"We can take the rest of day for leisure, spend a night, and then we fly at 9:00 a.m. At the moment he thinks we're in Italy."

John exhaled, "Right. Then what?"

"Off to Brussels."

John rolled his eyes and the other man had the nerve to grin.

"And now without our suitcases, I have no change of clothes. No toothbrush, nothing."

"Please, John. You didn't think I'd plan that out in advance?"

John furrowed his brow and looked at his companion still dressed as the elderly priest, "How do you mean?"

Sherlock shrugged, "They have fine shopping here, and I may have a credit card or two. Or three." He smirked as he dug them out of his vest.

"Platinums?"

"Mycroft."

John groaned.

…

They got a fair share of strange looks from the cabbies and boutique clerks dressed as they were: a brit playboy and a priest.

Though exhausted, John trailed after his friend, wondering if the man's burst of energy for shopping was a bit too enthusiastic. Not for himself, rather, but for John. Before he knew it, he was in possession of no less than seven different outfits, each article being more expensive than his entire wardrobe back home combined. (Perhaps he'd too hastily decided the QE team would reject him, obviously the man had a secret flare for makeovers).They also stopped into a pharmacy and picked out the rest of their toiletries and other necessities.

Once checked into their hotel, John wearily flopped himself down onto the bed. Sherlock had apparently booked them each a separate suite, (which John was patently grateful for.)

…

The following morning, after checking in quickly with Mary, and fabricating his whereabouts (he didn't have the energy to spare to explain to her everything just yet, and there was a part of him, that wasn't sure he wanted to share the fact that he was traveling beside Sherlock), John had just barely managed to cram down a casse-croute before Sherlock herded him off to their gate. (Seriously. Did the man run on some fuel other than food?)

Their stay in Brussels was more abrupt than that of Paris, and before he knew it, he was once again, wearily dragged aboard, yet again, their next flight out to Switzerland.

John wondered when he'd ceased to be a human and somehow transmogrified into Sherlock's ragdoll. His exhaustion was such that, his limbs felt heavier than bags of sand, and his back ached from the awful seats in the airline. Once or twice he wondered why Sherlock hadn't bothered to book them into first class, particularly since, with the man's ridiculous lankiness and sharp knees digging into the seat in front of him, John couldn't help but pity the poor sap assigned there.

John awoke some time later with a sharp crick in his neck from the unusual angle he passed out in. He winced as he turned his head to the side, attempting to work it out.

Sherlock smirked reaching over, "You could have just asked for a pillow, you know."

John sighed as the man took the liberty of working out the knot, his hands warm and soothing.

God, the man had talent. He shook his head with new found relief feeling his freedom of movement return.

"I've found us a cozy spot in Meiringen. You've been quite sporting thus far. Thought we might take a few days of leisure."

"'Sporting'? Hah," John snorted, "Seriously? You mean I can sleep for more than four hours?"

Sherock grinned ironically, "Yes. John, I wouldn't want to impede upon your precious slumber."

"You say that like-" John stretched, yawning, "-like as if you never need any for yourself."

Sherlock leaned back, twining his fingers together and folding them across his chest, "As I was saying, I'd like to rest for awhile. Maybe dine out. Or dine in, whichever you'd prefer. Hike out and see the sights, with the snow melting, you'd probably like to do so. We could make it a bit of a-"

"-Holiday?" John raised an eyebrow ironically, "We're fleeing for our lives, and you want to make this a holiday."

"Moriarty is off our trail for the time being. He's not as clever as he thinks he is, and I've out deduced him. I know his next moves before he makes them," Sherlock bragged, grinning, "And yes, John. I'd like to take you on Holiday."

John flushed.

"It's only fitting as your wife is doing so-"

"-Hardly. She's taking care of a friend."

"So she says."

Anger rolled through him and John sat up, glaring at his companion, "What's that supposed to mean."

"Nothing. I didn't mean anything by it," he said wearily, waving his hand clearing off his words as some kind of misunderstanding, "I'd just like to be able to show you my gratitude. And apologize."

John's brows nearly shot to his hairline. "Thank you and Sorry in one sentence? Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock sighed, "I dragged you into this. It's only right, as your friend, that I…what I mean is…"

The man looked deeply uncomfortable and John took pity on him.

"Please. You didn't 'drag' me into anything. I was already in it from the start."

"Yes, because I took you in as my flat mate, and let you into my work."

John shook his head, "That's not what I mean. As I've said a million times before, I'm not an idiot. I knew what I was getting into when I signed up. And I'm not sorry for any of it. I wouldn't take back a single second."

The man frowned crossly, "You and I both know, John, that because of me, you're life is an incredible amount of jeopardy. Second only to my own at this very moment."

"Sherlock," John sighed dragging a hand down his face, "If I was going to be running from a madman beside anyone, I'm glad it's you. And even if I weren't in 'jeopardy' of being strapped down with another coat of semtex, or being blown up, or shot down in the middle of a fourway, or crushed by a piano falling out from a window-" Sherlock matched John's grin, "-I'd still be here. There's nothing in this world that could keep me from helping you in any way that I am able."

John glanced over at his companion and studied his warm, soft look, almost taken aback. He looked strange then. as if some sort of inner weariness had finally taken hold- so alien to the man, that John couldn't help but recall Mycroft's words.

"He's in love with you."

John felt once again, a pang in his chest as he looked back out the window at the passing haze of thick, white clouds.

…

For a peaceful week, as if pulled from some kind of idyllic travel brochure, they settled into a comfort of sorts in which breathing became easier. Interlaken was in one word, lovely. Surrounded by rolling valleys where the green was beginning to surface and steep mountain passes where the trails were still entrenched in the thick of winter, lay the rustic town of Meiringen, where just out of the cusp of the tourist spots the two had taken lodge.

The tension, panic, and the chase waned into a sort of background din, yet still, Sherlock seemed to never forget the shadow that lingered behind, ever-present and foreboding. John would catch his companion, even as they walked along, darting short, scrutinizing glances all around, ever wary, ever vigilant.

Every night for the past few days, as John would settle in after stoking the flame in the modest old hearth, he would watch Sherlock surveying Googlemap on his laptop (it was amazing they were even able to receive service out in these parts, so out of the main town as they were), and researching various dossiers sent over by the Yard. In his hand was a red pen, and he would scribble over a drawing he'd created of a map that resembled a web; scratching out this or that name and replacing it with another, working something out in his head, that John could barely grasp the enormity of.

Afterward, the man would retire his work, get up with a stretch and settle in a chair beside John, and they'd share a drink and not speak.

Few words had to be iterated, for John to know, in these moments, what they meant to each other.

What warmed him to the edges, but could not be expressed with words or touch, only sight and presence alone. Each desperately aware of that last wall between them that could not be breached.

Their rooms were separate but adjoined by a single door, which glared mockingly at John as he lay in bed, wishing desperately he could stop himself from wanting to go through.

It was as if London was some story of another time, and all friends and family, acquaintances and associates ceased to be real, and John ached wanting it to be so.

He could almost in way, feel it through the door; the silent tug of Sherlock's pulling back. Like a single, translucent thread between them, wrapping itself around his heart.

…

The following day, the two men made for a casual stroll up a hiker path, Sherlock taking the lead, John close behind. The man had barely looked up from his cell as he chattered away pointing out this or that particular site, and like some sort of bonified, self-designated tour-guide he speedily chirped out information.

"You know, I appreciate the tour Sherlock. But you could look up once or twice. Some things can be just as interesting without constantly citing off bits from Wikipedia."

Sherlock looked back at John with an expression of bafflement, as if this simply hadn't occurred to him.

John grinned, "Mountains looks nicer in reality than off a a street level view of Googlemap."

"Point taken."

As they continued along John inhaled deeply the crisp mountain air, and felt himself infused with an inner, Zen-like tranquility. The sky over the horizon, saturated with orange cascaded down among them, catching reflectively off his companion's sleek jet-black curls. Distracted as he was as they tread up the path, John suddenly caught his toe on a rock and stumbled forward into the other man. Sherlock, reflexively, whipped around and steadied John.

For a moment, that stood utterly still in time, they were far, far too close.

Sherlock's lips just nearly brushed John's own when he came to, and he pulled himself back, out from the other man's arms.

The moment dissipated, and Sherlock steeled himself, turning back around.

"Clumsy."

"Shut it."

…

Yet again, keeping to their routine, John, with his stocking feet up on the sofa, read quietly as Sherlock did whatever he was doing, when he felt a sharp pang of hunger.

Fortunately he recalled their innkeeper, Peter Steiler, a uniquely hospitable chap, with an impeccable fluency for the English language; whom had, earlier that morning suggested to John an excellent place for dining at the Schloss Hunigen.

Sherlock seemed troubled more than usual as he stared at his phone. Quickly, he typed something into it.

John felt the rolling of his stomach yet again and cleared his throat, "Supper?"

The man looked up distractedly from his cell, and glanced at John with a baffled expression, as if the notion of 'supper' were foreign to him, "Oh. Yes."

John brought up the restaurant and Sherlock accommodatingly assented.

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair and followed John out the door.

…

John tucked into his zurcher geschnetzeltes with ardour, savouring the rich creamy sauce and perfect mushrooms and tender veal.

"John."

He looked up at the sound of his name, having been uttered with a strange softness, where Sherlock gazed at him from across the table with a reticent expression.

"Mm?" Politely, he swallowed his mouthful, "Yes?"

"These past few days…" Sherlock all but whispered, uncharacteristically timid, "John, I've… missed you."

The man looked absolutely done in at having said so, and John furrowed his brow in confusion.

"I'm er… right here?"

The man quirked a grin, then fell back to a subtle expression of serious intensity, laying down his fork carefully beside his plate.

"What I mean is of little literality."

Sherlock's poignant, leveling look took John off guard.

"I… see. I think."

His supper seemed suddenly less interesting than it had.

"Having you here. It's as if you never left."

('Baker Street'. 'Me'.) But not that any of that needed to be spoken to complete the meaning, for John had wholly grasped it.

Damn. Once again, Sherlock was backtracking, all but tearing up their previous agreement.

John sighed as he replayed the candid admission. Seriously Mycroft gave his brother very little credit. It seemed as if the man were perfectly capable of articulating his emotions in spite of what others thought.

And God. What emotions they implied.

With John's lack of response, his companion seemed to inwardly deflate. Just so slightly, it was nearly imperceptible but John had caught it.

"Sherlock I-"

"-It doesn't matter. Whatever aphoristic objection, however kindly meant, is irrelevant and very simply, accepted at this point," he sighed, "It's just, everything is so consummately diaphanous, yet impassable. It's-"

(-'painful').

"It can't be otherwise," John responded quietly, carefully.

Sherlock nodded, "As I said, understood."

John reached out across the table before he could stop himself and snatched Sherlock's hand in his own and for a split second, he stared at their hands almost stunned he'd done so.

He looked back up at the sharp intake of breath from his companion and the other diners simply faded immaterially into the periphery.

"John-"

"-No. Please. Hear me out."

He breathed out a sigh that gust across the table.

"I care for you as any man could for another. I know. It seems like it's not enough. But you are, and always will be, my friend. And that," he breathed, shoving down the searing ache, "Has to be enough."

But what an inspired obfuscation that was. Yet John, inhibited as he was, utterly hindered by his own sense of moral absolution, had no other choice than to redraw out the line, though it was impossible to believe it an entity worthy of protection; It would be, he despairingly knew, the line that would inevitably bisect the one between them, completing the severance.

He released his grip, but instead of recoiling with hurt, Sherlock's hand lingered momentarily before he pulled it back into his lap.

After a time, Sherlock glanced back up at John, meeting his gaze with a tremulous, but steadfast one of his own, "Then it will be."

They fell into silence.

Whatever it was about that moment, Sherlock had seemed to draw into himself, and something like an inward resolve conveyed itself outward in its wake.

…

The two men trekked out to Reichenbach that day, intending to take in the sights before heading back into town.

John gazed over the jutting edge of the abyss, feeling a humbling remove from reality as he judged the treacherous magnitude of the canyon's depth at nearly 250 meters down, like some kind of magnificent vortex into the earth.

"We walked to the brink and we looked it in the face," Sherlock's words, barely a whispered breath, were nearly carried away by the deafening roar of the falls crashing below.

The significance of his utterance was staggering, and cut John to the core. There could be no appropriate response.

He watched as the white, foaming mouth swallowed the water rushing it back out again along the sharp, jagged rocks below and sighed wearily.

John stepped back from the ledge, glancing across at his companion, whom studied him with an expression of inexorable stoicism.

"It's all there John," he stated with crisp, concise conviction, "And I'm on the precipice of it."

His cryptic declaration rung with a troublingly fatalistic tone and John frowned, "Precipice of what? I mean other than literally on the edge of the cliff?"

Sherlock's eyes at that moment seemed piercing and ancient, "What fates impose, that men must needs abide; it boots not to resist both wind and tide."

Within, he seemed to grow a hundredfold, exultant and self-validated, "John, you are the best man I know."

John shrank back warily, with an urgent yearning to grab the man away from the edge, both literally and metaphorically.

Sherlock dropped back his head and laughed, "Please, John don't look at me like that, I'm not about to leap off the cliff."

John exhaled, his heart beating rapidly within his chest.

"Never can be sure with you," he granted Sherlock a tentative grin, "As generous as the sentiment might be, and I appreciate it, why say it now, and why wax philosophic? Sounds like you're writing up your epitaph."

Sherlock gazed gently at his friend, "Because, I shouldn't like to think we would ever leave words unsaid between us."

John frowned, "Again, this sounds like some kind of parting speech, what are you trying to tell me?"

The man chuckled softly, again, utterly out of character, "Did you know, John, that just below the waterfall is a pitted out gorge formed by kinetic energy thrust forward by the force of the water?"

"Another Wiki fact, Sherlock?" John raised his eyebrow with wry amusement.

His eyes glazed over almost dreamily, "It's as if the whole world is set to cave itself inward, an implosion of profound majesty."

"Alright, I think that's enough wisdom for one day. I think we-"

"-Doctor Watson!" A voice cried out.

John glanced back, startled, as a young man came running toward them.

Huffing, out of breath, the man leaned down bracing his hands upon his knees, "Please!" he begged in broken English, "Peter. He gave me to tell you, a cenadwri, er…dispatch. Gwneud dod. Er… you to come! Emergence!"

John took the scribbled out message, and sure enough it bore the mark of the lodge:

Dr. Watson – Medical emergency. A guest has suffered a poisoning/allergic reaction, cause unverified. Injected her with Epinephrine, and she's seizing. Please come at soonest convenience. The ambulance is 20 minutes out. –Peter

John stared at the letter momentarily paralyzed before action took hold commanding him to take reign. He glanced up warily at his friend taken aback by the succinct gleam in his eye. The way he looked at John for just a fleeting second, was in a breath, tender. As if he were, for all the world, memorizing him, imprinting his image beyond his retinas, burning him there eternally. At that moment, John felt a strange misgiving, leaving the man behind.

"Go!" Sherlock demanded, barking out the order in the form of a drill sergeant.

He complied immediately, following the lad back down the hill, running at near break neck speed. And at last, as if compelled by some invisible thread he turned back just once, to look at the far off figure of his friend, a small, blurred silhouette against the falls. Out of the corner of his eye he imagined he saw another figure darting quickly around from the other side, but couldn't be sure of it.

"Come!" The lad beckoned with wide, panicked eyes, "We hurry!"

As soon as they approached, the young man ran off shouting something or another unintelligibly about hailing forth the ambulance(?) And John rushed into the Inn and up to the desk.

"Peter! Where is he!" John panted clutching his chest, lungs depleted from running through the thin air of the Alps, "Where is she?"

The harassed looking liaison quickly dialed for the Inn keeper, and he came down with an expression of astonished bewildered as he took in the other man's state.

"John, is everything alright?"

John's heart turned to lead.

"The woman! Is she alright? You sent for me?"

The frown on the other man's face deepened and he furrowed his brow, "Woman? I… sent for you?"

John huffed out an anxious breath, fear gripping him from within, "You mean you didn't write this?"

He held out the missive. "I didn't," he confirmed, shaking his head.

"But it has the Inn's stamp on it!" John stammered.

The man frowned, "It must have been that strange Irish sounding fellow. Said he was an Englishman, though- He came in after you had gone. He said-"

Vision swimming, John could not wait for explanations. He darted back out frantic with mixed horror and despair. Making back up the path from which he'd so recently descended, he squinted, praying to see the form of his companion atop the hill.

As he neared, he slowed, his leg screaming it's agony, seeing not a soul in site.

"Sherlock!" He shouted out into the roaring canyon. It echoed back until it faded, with no response.

John stood for a moment in the place just twenty-five minutes before, where he'd been beside his friend.

Something sparkled catching a glint of the sun through the clear, cloudless sky. He immediately recognized Sherlock's phone, and picked it up, his gut clenching with trepidation.

He unlocked the screen and saw, opened, a text, unsent, addressed to him.

[My Dear John, By the courtesy of Mr. Moriarty, whom awaits this, our last discussion, I have been allowed to write to you these, my last words. (Yes, I know you cringe at the irony, really John, that jibe you made about me composing my epitaph was very clever of you. But then, you've always been cleverer than I've given credit for.) I was convinced the letter was a hoax, manufactured to draw you away at the pinnacle of this inevitable confrontation. It brings me relief to know of your safety from this matter. Send off to Lestrade the jump drive in the desk back in our rooms at the Inn. The evidence therein contains all he'll need to convict Moriarty's web of associates. To my brother, I've already handed off my last will and testament allocating my worldly possessions. But none of them matter one whit, as the one I'm sorest to lose, is my dearest friend. Give my greetings to Mrs. Watson, and believe me to be, my dearest John (you, as the heart that beats within me), very sincerely yours, Sherlock]

…

TBC…

A/N: Well duh, it's not over yet. Working on the third bit as we speak. And yes, as I rewrote Sherlock's final note to John, I was nearly shrieking at myself the entire time, as if I, was singlehandedly responsible for murdering him.

It was awful : (

Expect for part 3 we'll get back to some of the light-hearted humour and hopefully conclude happily. The process of getting there might be a bit rough, fair warning. (Thanks friends for sticking by!)