John was doing well. Not completely without the occasional internal conflict, but generally content to follow the pattern Sherlock had laid out for him, live the oblivious life of the trustworthy, the submissive. And he was beautiful in it, a new protectiveness Sherlock had never felt for the man before settling like a constant warmth beneath his breastbone.

After that first night, Sherlock had made sure to send John away for groceries, giving him an extensive list, cab fare, and directions to the Tesco furthest from their flat without being suspicious. While he was gone, Sherlock removed every trace of the old John-the one that had haunted John for so long, broken him, tortured him, damaged him, and for all intents and purposes, annoyed Sherlock on many occasions-from every inch of the flat. By the time John returned home, all but a few pictures and the medical journals, which Sherlock could claim as his own until John's medical knowledge became necessary, had been put into storage. Every reminder of John's time in Afghanistan had been burned.

And when Mycroft texted him-This will backfire on you. Severely. MH-Sherlock found the newly installed hidden cameras and got rid of those as well, making sure to do so while John was taking a shower. He needn't know of Mycroft's unwelcome involvement in their lives. It would only cause undo concern that his John didn't need. His John didn't need to be concerned about anything anymore.

Two nights later, however, John had his first nightmare.

Sherlock wasn't unfamiliar with the sound of John's pained whimpers or abrupt shouts in the middle of the night, though he hadn't heard them in a long while, but he'd never experienced them in person, been woken up-on one of the rare nights he slept-by John's thrashing, his screams loud in Sherlock's ear, the feeling of a hand reaching under his pillow for a gun that wasn't there, a gun that was hidden in the flat and out of John's reach, one that his John shouldn't know anything about. It had been a difficult call, keeping the man's superb marksmanship to himself, but it was a part of the past that Sherlock felt he deserved not to be burdened by any longer, and if he needed that skill, he could remind John of it later. Right now, the lack of gun was proving a wise decision indeed.

"John! John, wake up!" Sherlock tried, grabbing hold of John's arm and pulling him upright into a sitting position. John's eyes were open but glazed, distant, scanning the room for something Sherlock couldn't see. When Sherlock went to place a hand against John's cheek, John scrambled out of Sherlock's purchase and elbowed him in the face, falling out of the bed and haphazardly to the floor before realizing what he'd done. Sherlock felt at the tender spot beneath his right eye and hissed, looking over the edge of the bed at John's face. Pain, terror, humiliation, confusion, guilt.

"Oh god, Sherlock. I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry. I have no idea what just happened, I…" He buried his face in his hands and took a deep, shaking breath. "I didn't mean to, honest. Please don't be upset with me, I swear I didn't mean to." Sherlock reached over the side of the bed and gently put a hand on the top of John's head.

"It's alright, John. You were just having a nightmare." Sherlock said softly, soothingly. John shook his head, face still buried away, hidden from sight. Ashamed. Sherlock's heart swelled for him.

"What sort of nightmare would make me want to elbow you in the face?" John looked up then, eyes pleading. "I don't even remember what I was dreaming about, Sherlock! What if it was something important?"

"It was nothing, John. I'm sure it was nothing." Sherlock smiled, grabbing his hand and pulling him up. "Now come back to bed."

"I should sleep in the guest bedroom tonight," John mumbled, a spike of fear settling at the base of Sherlock's skull. "It'll be better if I'm not-"

"Nonsense," Sherlock frowned, pulling John into the bed by force and wrapping his arms protectively around the man's chest and waist. "You belong here. With me."

"I don't want to hurt you again," John frowned, turning himself in Sherlock's arms and touching lightly at the spot below his eye. "I don't know what I'd do if I… You're all I have, Sherlock. I'd never forgive myself."

Sherlock shushed him, laying him down and covering them both with the blanket. "I'm not going anywhere, John. Sleep now. It'll be better tomorrow."

It happened every night for four days. On the fifth, Sherlock noticed John limping.

"Maybe I hurt it in the attack? The one that…" John cut himself off, tapping at this temple in lieu of finishing that sentence. Sherlock didn't reply, too busy trying to figure out how to make it go away. He'd cured it before, he could do it again. This wasn't working, this wasn't right at all. He was looking at it all wrong.

"Okay," John cleared his throat. "I figured I'd go get it checked out either way. Make sure there isn't nerve damage or-"

"No!" Sherlock blurted, realized his response by the look on John's face, and tried again. "I mean, yes. Definitely a good idea. But I'll take you."

John couldn't go back to the same hospital, not when there were staff members who he'd worked with, who'd want to check in on his health, ask him if he remembered anything, remind him that he was a doctor, which could remind him that he'd been an army doctor, which would remind him of everything. Because there was no going back once he remembered Afghanistan and all of Sherlock's hard work will have been for nothing. No. He would take John to a smaller clinic, one where a man owed him a favor and wouldn't ask for too much of John's personal history.

"Alright. Good then," John smiled at him. An honest, trusting, grateful smile, and Sherlock leaned in without thinking, kissed him square on the mouth, holding him there until John pulled away, chuckling. "I'm sure it's nothing, Sherlock. No need to be worried." Sherlock laughed with him, smiled back at him, and this John was so near perfect, it hurt. "I should probably take my cane, though, yeah? Just in case."

Sherlock's heart stopped. He'd gotten rid of the cane, his John had never seen the cane, knew nothing of the cane, shouldn't even need the bloody cane. And even the look on John's face said he hadn't considered the words before speaking them, his mind skipping a connection to his mouth and producing something that Sherlock couldn't simply put away in storage and pretend it never existed. Damn. Damn it all.

"Do I… Do I actually have a cane?" John asked hesitantly, hopefully, nervously, and he took the lifeline without question. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair and shook his head.

"No, John. You don't. You've never needed one."

John swallowed, smirking half-heartedly. "Oh. Well, let's hope it stays that way, then, yeah?" He tried to offer a chuckle too, but the confusion had all but ruined his mood. And Sherlock's.

"It will, John," Sherlock grabbed John's arm and looped it through his. "And in the meantime, you can lean on me. Sound fair?"

John laughed then, actually laughed, just like his old self. Sherlock didn't know how to feel about that. "Fair enough. Shall we?"

John was in and out of the clinic with barely more than a, "Just try not to strain it," and the advice to come back if it stiffened further. It should have gone smoothly, would have if John hadn't stumbled on his way out of the room, catching himself on the slightly ajar office door across the hall.

"Sorry," John backed away, holding a hand up in apology, the other still on the door handle. Which is where he froze, eyes scanning the patient on the table with a keen eye Sherlock recognized at once.

"We should go," Sherlock said quickly, grabbing at John's elbow, but he was frozen, weight evenly distributed on both legs and eyes wide as he took it all in.

Finally, when it seemed he'd seen whatever it was his subconscious was documenting, John whispered, "Prurigo Gestationis." Sherlock glanced inside under the guise of pulling John away, getting himself a good look at the patient in question. A woman, late thirties, in her last trimester. She had her shirt raised over the bulge of her stomach to reveal a spattering of red dots along her abdomen.

"Sorry to bother you," Sherlock said, leading John back into the hall. His eyes were distant, calculating, the information pouring out of his mouth like he had no control over it.

"Prurigo Gestationis. She's in her last week of pregnancy, the late form of the rash developing in spots along the abdomen and stretch marks. It's usually completely clear three weeks after childbirth." John pinched at the bridge of his nose as if warding off a headache. "No serious complications to mother or child. Simple treatment of antihistamine tablets." John looked up at Sherlock wide eyed. "How do I know that?" He grabbed Sherlock's arm tightly, face hopeful. "Am I a doctor?" Sherlock frowned.

He didn't answer right away, let himself weigh the pros and cons of each possible response. Doctor John H. Watson wasn't his John, but there were definite perks of the good doctor's knowledge, his logic, his bravery in the face of any bodily harm to Sherlock or himself. It would be unwise to ignore, and near impossible to persuade John otherwise after that display.

"You used to be," Sherlock looped his arm through John's again and walked him out of the clinic to the street, occasionally raising his free arm to hail a cab. "You were brilliant. And you loved it."

"Why'd I stop?" John asked, genuinely curious, not mourning the loss of that part of himself at all. Another good sign.

"You found something you love better," Sherlock smiled, leaving it at that. If John decided to interpret that something as Sherlock, there was no harm in it. If he figured it was something still as of yet unrevealed, Sherlock would find something to fill that gap just like with everything else.

Lestrade was waiting for them in the flat when they got home, Sherlock ushering John into the kitchen without a word to the DI.

"Make us some tea, would you, love?" Sherlock asked kindly, hoping the tension wasn't seeping into his voice. John nodded, already filling the kettle with water. Before Sherlock could leave, however, John leaned in with a whisper.

"Do I know that man?"

Sherlock hesitated, but figured it best to keep the story simple in this one. John he could control, but what might come out of Lestrade's mouth was another matter entirely. "He's Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. He's probably here with a case. You've met him from time to time at crime scenes."

"Ah," John nodded, placing the kettle on the burner with a distant smile. "Well that's good then, isn't it? A case?" John looked at him again, hopeful again, trying to remember again, and Sherlock had to stop himself from walking away. "Maybe being out in the field will do me some good. Remind me of what I've been doing with my life." Thankfully, he was looking back at the kettle then, unable to see the grimace that had wormed its way onto Sherlock's face.

Sherlock forced it aside and wrapped his arms around John's chest, kissing him on the neck. "Perhaps it would be best if you sat this one out until you feel better." No. No, that wasn't right. He needed his John. He needed him there to show off for, to draw inspiration from, to giggle with. That wasn't right at all. "I mean," Sherlock tried again, frowning. "Just for now. Maybe the next one?" Better, but still not quite there, not quite what he wanted. John nodded regardless and Sherlock let go, leaving him to the tea as he went into the sitting room with Lestrade.

The man was eyeing him suspiciously, which was never good where Lestrade was concerned. He made unforgivable mistakes when he was suspicious. "So how's he doing, then?" Lestrade asked quietly, making sure John couldn't hear. "They told me you checked him out of the hospital. Wasn't he still-?"

"It was nothing I couldn't help him through here." Sherlock cut him off with a glare. Lestrade sat on that for a moment before nodding.

"I suppose the best place for him would be where all the memories are, yeah?" Sherlock said nothing, so Lestrade went on. "They say cases like his can heal themselves over time with the right attention. I'm sure he'll be back to himself in-"

"Did you come here for a reason, or just to check in on my flatmate's well-being?" Sherlock interrupted again just in time for John to appear, a cup of tea in hand for Sherlock and Lestrade.

"I'm your flatmate now, am I?" John offered what he thought was a playful grin, but at the look on Sherlock's face, he smothered it. Confusion mixed with apology mixed with hurt took its place.

"Can you give us a moment, John?" Sherlock asked as gingerly as he could manage, relieved when John instantly turned back to the kitchen, taking his own cup of tea from the kitchen and disappearing into their bedroom. Lestrade was staring at him, eyebrow raised, when he looked back.

"What was that about?"

"Nothing that concerns you." Sherlock waved him away. "So what exactly are you here for, Detective Inspector?"

Lestrade stared at him long enough for Sherlock to grow suspicious himself, and when he finally spoke, it was somewhat unexpected. "Has he talked to his family yet?"

"No, why would he?" Sherlock crossed his arms, and at the look on Lestrade's face, he realized his mistake. Bit not good. Bit not good and no John to catch him before he made it worse. Wrong, wrong, wrong.

"He needs to let his family know what's going on, Sherlock!" Lestrade shouted, stunned. Sherlock would have to fix this later. He would have to fix everything later. So much to fix, more and more every day. Why was this so hard? "They could help him-"

"I'm helping him!" Sherlock shouted back. "I'm all he needs."

"You weren't there for his childhood, Sherlock." Lestrade frowned, deeply, deeply something with him. More than angry. Ah. Appalled. "He needs them to fill in those gaps if you want him to get better."

"He's already getting better. Better every day. Now if you don't have a case for me, then please," Sherlock got to his feet and motioned at the door. "Show yourself out." He sat himself back down, pointedly not looking at Lestrade anymore. This conversation was over. But, as expected of the Detective Inspector, Lestrade didn't give in.

"Something's not right here, Sherlock." Lestrade got to his feet, tea untouched. How rude. His John had made that. "I'll find out eventually, and if you're doing anything to John-"

Sherlock was on his feet and in Lestrade's face in an instant. "Get out." He growled, not touching the DI, of course not, but close, very, very close, close enough to make the man uncomfortable. "And don't come back here again." Lestrade blinked, taking a step away then, and Sherlock straightened his back, smiling coolly. "If there's a case, text me. Otherwise, you're no longer welcome on my property. Good day, Detective Inspector."

Sherlock turned towards the window, listening to Lestrade's hesitance, then his footsteps down the stairs-a bit unsettled-and watching as he got into a cab in front of 221B-a bit rushed. It was for the best. Lestrade would still invite him to crime scenes, the man was no fool, and this way, John wouldn't be influenced by his misplaced concerns. John didn't need his family to remind him of his alcoholic sister, his absent father. He didn't need his friends to remind him of the good and the bad of University or the trials of war. All he needed was Sherlock. All the good memories were with Sherlock. Only Sherlock could give him what he truly needed.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock, please…" John panted into his ear, legs wrapped around Sherlock's waist as he pounded harder, faster, deeper into John's willing-so willing, so, so finally willing-arse, each thrust causing John to clench beautifully around him. "More, Sherlock. Just a bit more?" The way his voice lifted at the end like a question almost did Sherlock in right there, his submission even now, going far beyond the sex, far beyond his own needs, his own desires. As if Sherlock, finally and completely, came first, mattered more than anyone else.

"Yes, John," Sherlock groaned, slipping John's knees over his shoulders and thrusting just that much deeper, slapping against him with the force of it. John's mouth fell openly deliciously when he came, Sherlock beyond the will to deny himself the claiming of that mouth, kissing John's cries away, muffling them down his own throat. "Yes, John, yes," Sherlock moaned as he jerked against John's tense, unbelievably tight form, and buried himself to the hilt, filling his John to the brim with his seed, his ownership, his love. So much love, pouring out sticky and hot between them.

John let his legs fall to the bed, chest heaving with blissful satisfaction, lazy with it, beautiful for it. "I got to do that all the time?" John licked his lips, chuckling breathily, and Sherlock had to remind himself that this wasn't their first time, this was one of many, many times he'd taken John like this. And when it was John's turn to take him, that would be far from their first as well. In the back of his mind, Sherlock mourned the loss of a shared first experience, but he abandoned it quickly. To John, this was both his first and his umpteenth time being thoroughly ravaged by Sherlock, and it wouldn't be his last. That's what mattered. That's what mattered.

"Does that surprise you?" Sherlock grinned, nuzzling into John's neck and kissing at the hollow behind his ear. John blushed.

"A little bit, yeah," he replied softly, smiling shyly. "It felt like I'd never done that before, like my body couldn't process the experience. It was just too overwhelming. Too brilliant all at once."

"I'm just that good," Sherlock purred, kissing John deeply before rolling off the bed to grab a towel.

"I guess so," John chuckled, but it sounded distant again. Why did he keep sounding distant? Eventually, once Sherlock had returned and cleaned them both up as best he could, John whispered, "Why'd you call me your flatmate earlier?"

Sherlock had considered this. A minor mishap easily corrected. "The Detective Inspector doesn't like to admit it, but he suffers from no little amount of homophobia. We'd decided to keep our relationship from him until he seemed willing to accept it." Sherlock brushed John's sweat clumped fringe from his brow and kissed him there. "So flatmates."

"Right," John nodded, settling further against Sherlock, already drifting away. "He didn't seem the homophobic type."

"They rarely do," Sherlock mumbled against John's forehead.

There was no nightmare that night, John's smile greeting him sleepily from within Sherlock's arms the next morning. When the silence lingered long enough to be curious, Sherlock offered a smile of his own, mumbling a surprisingly lazy, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," John stretched, kissing Sherlock on the nose once he'd settled back under the covers. "I just feel… Happy, I guess. Lucky."

"Lucky?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow, still smiling. He couldn't stop smiling if he tried.

"I know it's probably just because of the," John touched his temple again. "But it still feels new to me. It feels fresh and unexpected and I feel lucky. I get to see your gorgeous face when I first wake up in the morning. It feels… unbelievable."

Sherlock kissed him then, hard and long and if John hadn't pushed him away with a laugh, mumbling something about still being sore, Sherlock could have had him again right then, in a sleepy, perfect tangle of limbs.

"I'll be back," John sighed, wrenching himself away from Sherlock's clutches and out of the bed. "Mother nature bows to no one."

"Neither does my desire to have you fuck me into the mattress the moment you get back," Sherlock replied, voice sultry and low. John blanched, frozen halfway out the door before laughing loudly, jovially.

"Looks like I'll have to get used to that again too." He winked. And then he was gone, Sherlock stretching into the whole of the bed before relaxing again, waiting for John, thinking about what John would soon do to him, all the things Sherlock had fantasized about finally his. Thanks to his John.

"I don't know how much longer I can wait!" Sherlock called out, running both hands from chest to stomach to right above his hardening erection. Indulging himself, he wrapped a hand around the base and gave his length a good, slow stroke. "If you're not up here soon, I'll be forced to finish without you."

"Jesus, has no one taught you patience?" John's voice echoed from the bathroom. Sherlock almost responded-You did, once. You taught me a lot of things. Now I get to teach you.-but instead, just stilled his hand, squeezing but doing no more. Again, john's voice called out to him, this time from the sitting room. "Your phone has a text. Want me to bring it to you?"

"Leave it," Sherlock groaned. "We have more important things to concern ourselves with, don't you think?" John didn't respond. Nor could Sherlock hear his footsteps returning to the room. Was he standing in the sitting room, biding his time, making Sherlock squirm? Sherlock smirked. He was loving his John more and more. "I've got my hand on my cock, John." He called out, stroking once more before letting go. "I'm hard and desperate and waiting for you, John." He added, spreading his legs. "Am I going to have to prepare myself too? Or are you-?"

Sherlock sat up. It had been distant and soft, intentionally quiet, but he'd heard it all the same.

Sherlock didn't even bother putting on his dressing gown, out of bed and stumbling naked into the sitting room at once. John wasn't there, he wasn't in the bathroom, he wasn't in the kitchen. Where was he? Sherlock ran to the window just in time to see a familiar black car pull away from their flat. Even with the standard issue tinted windows, Sherlock knew without a doubt that John was inside. But why? Why, why, why, wh-? Sherlock spun around to where he remembered leaving his phone the night before. There it sat, still on the arm of his favorite chair, but it was left open, recently checked.

John had said he'd gotten a message.

Sherlock nearly tripped over himself in his rush to get to the phone, opening it up to find the message already in place.

There's a car waiting for you downstairs, Dr. Watson. I have the answers you seek.

MH

Sherlock almost hurled his phone at the wall, considered it greatly, but then remembered the unfinished cup of tea and chucked that instead, the sound it made as it shattered, and the splatter of tea it left behind, weren't nearly satisfying enough. So Sherlock let out a near animalistic shout, the sound of it wanton and surprising even to his own ears. Mycroft had probably been planning this for weeks, waiting for the opportunity to pry John away without Sherlock's knowing. He'd gotten rid of John's phone for that very reason. But he'd let his guard down. Damn him, damn him! Sherlock nearly threw his mobile again, instead, opening up a new message and pounding at the keys like they'd personally wronged him.

Give him back.

SH

The response was practically instantaneous.

He's a good man, Sherlock. He doesn't deserve this.

MH

Give. Him. Back. Now.

SH

If he wants to come back, I will not stand in his way. But even you cannot be foolish enough to believe that he will.

MH

Sherlock's heart was pounding in his ears, his throat had closed in panic, he could barely see the screen in front of him past the wave of nausea that suddenly overwhelmed him. His John would come back. He had to come back. Why wouldn't he come back? He needed to come back. He would come back, right? Of course he would.

As a last ditch effort, a final desperate attempt, Sherlock tried calling his brother instead. It went straight to voicemail.