Thank you so much for the first reviews. They are really appreciated.

John woke up shortly after 2am. After a trip to the bathroom he knew he wouldn't be able to fall asleep again soon. John climbed back into his bed anyway. Closing his eyes he reviewed the images of Christmas Day – the weirdest Christmas Day possible as far as John was concerned. Spending it with the Holmes family was weird enough. Under normal circumstances, if such a thing as normal ever happened since Sherlock had flounced into John's life, Sherlock and he would have had a great time laughing about Mycroft who enjoyed Christmas so very little and had kept complaining all day long. Instead, Sherlock had brought along Bill Wiggins, which had ignited a feeling inside John's chest he wasn't ready to scrutinize as closely as it deserved. It had felt almost as strange as the moment when he had seen Janine coming out of Sherlock's bedroom, following him into the bathroom or when she had kissed the detective.

John couldn't be jealous, could he? He remembered Irene Adler had asked him if he was jealous, after he had accused her of flirting with Sherlock. Damn it! He was jealous Sherlock had brought Bill Wiggins to his parent's house for Christmas.

He had moved on, had married, although Sherlock was back. He remembered Mrs Hudson saying 'Oh, so soon after Sherlock!' It had been two bloody years! That didn't qualify as soon, did it? John felt himself getting agitated, thinking about Sherlock. He checked if Mary was still asleep and got up.

Slipping on his dressing gown, he went to the kitchen to make some tea. He saw a light blinking at his mobile. It was a text from Mycroft.

'My office, 10am tomorrow, for your statement. MH'

Nothing about Sherlock but he knew that answering the text at 2am wouldn't get him anywhere. Hopefully he would be all the wiser in a few hours.

Once John had sat down with his tea, he rubbed his eyes thinking about Sherlock's actions the day before. The day Sherlock became a murderer. His friend had prevented John from becoming just that. When Magnussen had begun flicking his face, John had felt an anger burn inside him that had ignited another, a different feeling. Hate. John couldn't remember hating someone. Hating anyone that fiercely. Even the enemies during the war in Afghanistan were mere opponents. But Magnussen he had hated.

Interesting enough Sherlock had hated Magnussen from the very beginning. As far as John knew, Sherlock never hated anyone. He looked down on people, people annoyed him or he considered them inferior but hatred was something he hadn't expected finding in Sherlock. It was such a strong emotion. Like love.

John blinked. Love he hadn't expected from Sherlock either but during his speech at the wedding reception Sherlock had declared his love for John. He felt his throat constrict and exhaustion kick in. He skulked back to his bed. "Oh, Sherlock, what have you done?" John whispered, before falling asleep, sounding as devastated as Mycroft had some hours ago.

oOo

Mycroft woke up from the sound of an alarm clock. His first reaction was to pull his pillow over his head to shut out the noise but seconds later he realized that neither the alarm clock he was hearing nor the bed he was lying in was his. The scent of the pillow and the cover gave away that it was Gregory's bed. 'What on earth...?' Looking at the alarm clock, Mycroft sat up in shock. It was 9am. He couldn't remember the last time he had overslept. John Watson would be in his office in an hour.

Getting out of the bed he discovered that he wore only his boxers and vest. For a moment he tried to remember anything of significance about last night but how he had ended up in Gregory's bed like this he couldn't figure out.

His cloths were neatly folded and in the bathroom he found a towel, a still packed toothbrush and a razor with a note attached that read his name.

Mycroft was ready to go fifteen minutes later. He discovered Gregory curled up on the sofa, covered with a blanket. Only a tuft of gray hair was visible on one end and a foot on the other. He walked to the door quietly, not wanting to disturb the sleeping man.

His coat was not on the rack but there was a note reading 'kitchen'.

In the kitchen he found not only his coat but discovered that the electric kettle had been timed and the water was just boiling. A take away cup equipped with a teabag sat beside the kettle. There was cream and Gregory had even made him a bacon sandwich. He could only shake his head in amazement.

While he let the tea brew, he wrote a quick thank you note for Gregory and eventually left.

Mycroft arrived at his office ten to ten and found John Watson already waiting. He took him to the room where his statement would be taken. The whole affair lasted five cups of tea (the equivalent of two hours). When John Watson eventually finished, both he and Mycroft were exhausted. Sherlock's actions clearly disturbed the elder Holmes more than he let on. The most information Mycroft had received was actually from all the things John hadn't said. The good doctor probably didn't realize it yet but Mycroft now knew that it had been Mary Watson who had shot his brother. Why Sherlock insisted on protecting her, the politician couldn't understand. When John Watson had moved back in with Sherlock, Mycroft had had his suspicions. Now that he knew for certain, he was seriously tempted to have Mary removed for good. Pregnant or not – he couldn't care less.

Looking up he noticed that John Watson had asked him a question – for the second time.

"I'm sorry?"

"I asked you, when I can go and see Sherlock."

"I'll arrange for you to see him at 1600 hours."

John nodded. He took the address Mycroft wrote down for him and left without a goodbye or thank you.

It made no difference for Mycroft. He went into his office, closed the door firmly and settled down to think.

oOo

John went to Baker Street to inform Mrs Hudson about recent events. The landlady already knew that Sherlock was in prison. She had learned from Mycroft who had come to the flat the day before to pick up some of Sherlock's personal belongings. John told her he would Sherlock visit in prison this afternoon and promised to call.

oOo

Sherlock was lying on the bunk in his cell. He was fully dressed but had taken off his shoes and socks. His eyes were closed, he had pressed the palms of his hands together under his chin and recalled the events that had lead to his incarceration.

Sherlock decided that shooting Magnussen had been the right thing to do. He knew he had never loathed a single person as much as that man. Even now, just thinking about Magnussen almost made him sick to his stomach. Maybe, but only maybe, he would have allowed him to live if he hadn't flicked John. That's when Sherlock had totally lost it. Every single flick to John's face had been a personal offense to Sherlock. He had felt each one of them as if Magnussen had slapped him. Sherlock hadn't been able to block the pain of those blows, had felt the impact like they had been delivered with an iron bar. Sherlock knew how much it hurt being beaten with one.

When Mycroft had arrived with his forces, he had known that this was the last chance. He would never get this close to Magnussen again. John's safety was imperative. And so he had pulled the gun from John's belt and shot Magnussen in the head.

He knew he'd be dead, shot by the troops, if it hadn't been for his brother's presence. For once he was grateful for Mycroft's interference. Not because he valued his own life so very much. Of course, he didn't want to die but he knew John wouldn't have been able to cope with Sherlock dying before his very own eyes a second time.

John had Mary to take care of him now and she would have to make do. Sherlock knew about the power Mycroft held within the government but even he wouldn't be able to get him off the hook this time. Maybe he would be able to soften the blow but that was about it.

Sherlock was all talons and fangs when he came face to face with his brother. To a large extend it was due to the fact that Mycroft still saw Sherlock being a consulting detective as nothing more than a game, a waste of his talents. Mycroft cared about him, he wanted his younger brother to be happy but on Mycroft's terms. If anyone had reason to call Mycroft Iceman it was Sherlock. Although even Sherlock had to admit that this infuriating brother of late had seemed to have softened up a bit. Perhaps hanging about with Lestrade gave Mycroft a different perspective.

Pushing the thoughts about his brother aside, Sherlock wondered what would happen if he was no longer around to protect his friend John Watson. A tiny voice in his head told him that John would already be a lot safer without Sherlock being around. However the doctor had proven already that he got bored without a certain level of danger. A smile crept onto Sherlock's face when he thought of his friend taking a tire lever and searching for a young drug addict, spraining Bill Wiggins' wrist in the process. Oh yes, spending time with Sherlock certainly had rubbed off on the good doctor.

Still, he was worried about John's safety. As long as Mary wanted John, he would be safe. But what would happen when she changed her mind? For Sherlock it was not so much a question of if but when. John's chances of survival would improve if he could get Mycroft to watch over him. Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could already imagine the satisfaction his brother would get out of Sherlock literally offering himself in exchange for John's safety. Not that he had to offer anything really at this point. It would prove Mycroft's whole concept of caring not being an advantage. Although, a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth again, maybe Mycroft wouldn't be so pretentious now that he had begun to care about Lestrade instead of dismissing the DI like one of his underlings. Maybe Mycroft had found himself a goldfish after all and indeed wasn't lonely any more. Sherlock produced a very annoyed huff and jumped up when he caught himself feeling better from thinking his brother having found a friend.

For a while Sherlock paced the length of his cell. He had just decided that the concrete floor was much too cold to walk on with bare feet when the door of his cell was flung open.

"You have a visitor!" A soldier called out and stepped aside to let John Watson enter the cell. The door had just been slammed shut when Sherlock found himself engulfed into a hug. John almost desperately clung to his friend and all Sherlock could do was return the gesture. John smelled warm and familiar, and they held each other quite a bit longer than was socially acceptable for two men who were just friends. Both of them felt a bit awkward when the doctor's hands, which had held on the detective's clothing for dear life, unclenched and Sherlock straightened up, so his nose was no longer buried in John's hair. They sat down on the bunk, facing each other. Sherlock pulled up his feet and leaned his back against the wall. Of course John would notice right away that Sherlock's feet were cold just from the way he curled his toes.

"They did allow you wearing your socks and shoes in here, didn't they?" John scolded, pulling one sorry excuse for an ice block against his stomach, taking the other foot in both hands to rub it warm. Sherlock made a happy sound.

"I would offer you a cup of tea but my resources in here are somewhat limited."

John's face took on a pained expression on Sherlock's attempt at humor. For a while the doctor looked down on his hands, contemplating his friend's cold foot rather than his face.

"You really did hate him, didn't you?" Although it sounded like a question, John didn't expect an answer. "Any idea what's going to happen to you?"

Sherlock shrugged and tried to sound indifferent. "Prison perhaps. But I think Mycroft will get me an assignment abroad."

"What kind of assignment?" John asked, not liking the sound of it.

"I don't know. He didn't elaborate." Sherlock answered truthfully, leaving out the details that he'd most likely be dead within six month.

John took Sherlock's other foot that had rested against his stomach so far, and began rubbing it. He observed the movements of his hands once again before he spoke up. "I moved back in with Mary."

Although Sherlock had already guessed as much, it hurt more than he had expected.

'Stupid!' He scolded himself. 'You are in prison and will either stay there or go abroad to die. What did you expect him to do? Stay in Baker Street and pine?'

He found John was watching him when he looked up again. They were silent, neither of them knowing what to say. Finally John put Sherlock's foot down and stood up. He began pacing in the cell, obviously trying to decide if he should speak about what occupied his thoughts. Making up his mind, John stopped and stood in front of Sherlock.

"You said at my wedding that you loved me most in all this world. Did you mean that? Do you love me?"

"Yes." In Sherlock's opinion the answer was superfluous. However it was important for John to hear and caused an immediate reaction.

"I love you, too," he told Sherlock, before he sat on the edge of the bunk. Angling his body towards Sherlock he cupped his face with in his hands and kissed him.

Sherlock froze when he felt John's lips on his own. The action itself was unexpected, to say the least. Not to mention the sensation was very different from what it had felt like when Janine had kissed him. It hadn't been unpleasant when she had but compared to what he felt right now... No, those kisses couldn't be compared at all. Sherlock decided he'd better do something to show John how wonderful it felt. He withdrew, tilted his head slightly and then he kissed him back. Through that kiss, he tried to tell John how deep his feelings were. Sherlock had known he had feelings for John but even he was surprised what and how much poured out of him. Just with the touch of his lips and tongue he tried to convey how long he loved him, why he had jumped down the roof of Bart's, what had saved Sherlock's life when the bullet in his chest had stopped his heart and how much he hurt because Mary had snatched John away from him. John somehow understood what Sherlock tried to communicate and it scared the living daylight out of him.

When they broke the kiss, John looked at his friend with wide eyes. He felt himself tremble violently and was unable to do anything about it. John managed to stumble to his feet.

"Sherlock, I... I gotta go. I'll come back tomorrow."

Sherlock silently watched John backing away towards the door and pressing the call-button for the guard. When the door was opened a few seconds later, John looked at him.

"I'm sorry," he said again and hurried out of the cell, ripping a huge chunk out of Sherlock's heart in the process.

oOo

When Greg woke up around noon, he decided that Christmas hadn't been half as bad as he had expected it to be. He had worked until nine in the evening and afterwards eaten a nice meal together with other Yarders on duty before going home. Then he had received Mycroft's text and the day had really improved.

He switched on the kettle to make tea before he walked into his bedroom. The duvet had been neatly folded – he wasn't surprised. They had had a nice evening but the shot of whiskey had knocked out Mycroft efficiently. The same had happened once before. Wine, beer, brandy – no problem. One glass of malt and the politician was out like a light.

Greg chuckled. When he had managed to get Mycroft out of his suit and tried to tuck him in, Mycroft had dragged Greg into bed with him. Greg had complied after a half-hearted struggle and only managed to untangle himself from Mycroft's long limbs after the man had fallen asleep. Greg had been reluctant to leave the bed but had decided Mycroft might be embarrassed if he woke up with Greg. While Mycroft had snuggled deeper into the pillow, Greg had folded his clothes and prepared everything for the next morning. He had even set the time on his electric kettle to boil the water for tea and fixed Mycroft a bacon sandwich before he had settled down on his sofa. His last thought had been that he wondered where their relationship was heading.

Greg poured the hot water into the mug and fetched bread from the fridge to make breakfast for himself.

oOo

Mycroft sat in his office drinking another cup of tea and tried to bring some order to his thoughts. First, his brother was in prison. Sherlock probably wouldn't be tried for murder if he took on a mission for MI6 had offered. Second, Mary Watson had shot Sherlock and circumstances surrounding it didn't sit well with Mycroft. Try as he might he cared for his brother far too much. Third, he had discovered to his utmost annoyance that he had been seriously disappointed when he had found Gregory had slept on the sofa this morning instead of having shared the bed with him. He had considered problem number three the easiest to resolve. The result had been a broken teacup, which he had flung against the wall of his office in frustration. It couldn't be helped, he had to talk to Gregory eventually in regard of their relationship turning into something more than being just friends. The problem of Mary Watson could be postponed. Back to trying to help Sherlock. With a sigh Mycroft picked up his phone to call in another favour.

oOo

Instead of ordering the cab to take him home, John automatically gave the address Baker Street to the cabbie. He had promised Mrs Hudson to call but he might as well tell her in person.

While the landlady made tea, John went upstairs to get some things he knew Sherlock would want. For a moment he stood in the doorway of their flat. Well, it wasn't his flat any more. Technically it wasn't even Sherlock's. He wondered if Mrs Hudson would put it back on the market after all. He didn't like the thought that people other than he and Sherlock would occupy these rooms.

He shook his head to get rid of the cobwebs. Walking through the flat he decided on three items to take. Sherlock's violin, naturally. He hoped they would allow the detective to have it. A book about bees, Sherlock had acquired just recently and not read as far as John knew. And for lack of a better idea he took the skull. He just imagined what the guards at the prison would say to that. He could always tell them they could consider themselves lucky he hadn't brought the contents from the fridge.

He took the items downstairs and sat down at Mrs Hudson's kitchen table. He really cared for her. She had a way to listen that made John tell her a lot more than he had intended. He certainly told her more than he had told Mycroft this morning.

Initially he hadn't planned to tell her about the kiss but he figured that she was really the only one he could tell. She'd probably think it strange he hadn't kissed Sherlock before but that would be it.

"How's Sherlock doing? He must be terribly bored being in that dungeon they locked him in."

"It's not a dungeon," John corrected her. "But I'm sure he is tired of being locked up already."

"You didn't stay very long," Mrs Hudson observed.

John looked at his hands, clearly embarrassed. "No, I..." He was at a loss for words.

"You didn't have a fight, did you?"

John took a deep breath. "At the wedding, at my wedding, Sherlock said that he loved me. I asked him if it was true and when he said yes, I told him I loved him too and kissed him." John had rushed through these words without stopping or breathing.

At first Mrs Hudson didn't seem to comprehend why John was so agitated but then understanding dawned on her face.

"You didn't tell Sherlock before that you loved him?"

"Um... no." John kept his eyes fixed on his teacup.

"And you haven't kissed him before either?"

"No."

"Oh dear."

When John didn't say anything else she asked him, "And did you like it?"

John blushed ferociously.

"Actually I did. And..." He sounded like he was ready for the ground to swallow him. "I sort of ran away afterwards."

Mrs Hudson looked like she would say 'Oh dear' again but it wasn't nearly a strong enough expression. Her "Good Lord!" came out sounding more like 'Shit!'

Studying John's expression, her heart went out to him. "You got yourself in quite a situation by getting married," she told him.

"And I'm going to be a father," John added.

"If you are lucky the baby isn't yours." Mrs Hudson sounded quite cheerful by that possibility. "But you have to go back and apologize to Sherlock." She told him in a stern voice.

"And what then?" John asked. "What?" He had no idea even what to ask.

"And then you do whatever it is you do with a person you are in love with."

oOo

When John got home he was almost shaking. Opening the door he thought having declared his love to Sherlock and having kissed him must surely be written all over his face in very bold letters.

Mary either didn't notice or decided not to mention it when she greeted him.

"How is Sherlock?" She asked, hugging John and putting her head on his shoulder.

"As well as could be expected. I'm going to see him again tomorrow. I picked up his violin, the skull and his new book about bees."

"You took the skull?" Mary scrunched up her face. John shrugged.

"I don't know. It feels like the right thing to do."

Mary took John by the hand and led him into the kitchen. "I'll make some tea," she declared. She pulled out cups, tea and milk and waited for the water to boil. John sat at the kitchen table. His head was lowered and his eyes averted. Had he worn a jumper with the word 'Guilty' printed in bright red letters at the front and back, he wouldn't have looked more liable than he already did. Putting the cup down in front of him, Mary gently squeezed his shoulder and went into the living room to give him some space.

John slowly sipped his tea while he stared at his hands, cradling the cup. Mary was puttering about the living room and John admitted that he didn't care what it was she was doing. He had wanted this, this marriage, right? He still loved her, didn't he? Yes, to both questions. He had wanted this marriage and he still wanted it. Well, he wanted to settle down. He wanted to love and be loved in return. Yes, he loved Mary – in a way. He knew he loved his baby that grew inside her. Part of his brain punched a fist in the air, having successfully found a heartfelt yes. Did he love Sherlock? Another fist flew up. Damn it! John groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose. He loved Sherlock so much it made his stomach clench.

He had no illusion that his friend was in prison for no other reason then committing a crime for him, for John. Sherlock had killed for him like John had killed for Sherlock before.

John lifted his teacup when he noticed that he was crying. Unwanted tears rolled down his face and he couldn't even tell exactly why. Tears because of all the missed chances? The sheer madness of loving Sherlock? The fear of loosing him?

Suddenly John was pulled out of his chair and engulfed in a hug. Mary held him close, rubbing his back with soothing hands. "You love him, don't you?" She whispered.

John only nodded against he shoulder.

"Then spend as much time with him as possible, as long as you can. Show him how much you love him."

"Oh God!" John groaned. Did she know that her understanding made the situation almost worse? He nodded again, not knowing how to reply to her words. In a way Mary had given him permission to cheat on her. Was it even cheating when being permitted to... well, cheat?

John felt a new determination grow inside himself. He would go back to Sherlock the next day and he would show him all the love he felt for him. Somehow he would manage to do that.

He kissed Mary's cheek. "Thank you!" he said before pulling out his mobile and texting Mycroft that he wanted... no, that he demanded seeing Sherlock again the following day.