John and Mary Watson entered the townhouse to the sound of melancholy violin notes. John had been to Mycroft's home before, and greeted the butler, Jeffrey. Mary was ushered away to the guest room readied for the Watsons, and John made his way towards the music. Whether Sherlock knew it or not, his moods and feelings were always expressed through his music.

And the sad, lonely tune broke John's heart.

Sherlock stopped as soon as he heard his doctor approach.

"Hello, John," he said softly, with a small smile on his pale features.

John frowned. Sherlock didn't look much better than Mycroft. He knew that the Holmes brothers had not yet told him the full details of what they were facing, but anything that had both of them looking so drawn could not be good news. A shiver ran down his spine. Sherlock was not enjoying this particular game.

"Stop thinking," Sherlock said. While John had been ruminating, the detective had moved to stand right in front of him.

John enveloped his best friend in a hug.

"You mad, brilliant, heroic idiot," John muttered. "Don't you ever dare to do something like that again."

Sherlock chuckled. It felt good to have John back, and though he would never admit it, he had missed John's affection.

"That's an oxymoron, John," the detective said as John held his shoulders and examined him with a doctor's eye.

"Strip," John commanded.

"People will talk," Sherlock retorted.

"I don't care," John commanded. "You nearly died again – and I'm not taking any chances."

Sherlock made a face. "I'm fine."

John was not above a little manipulation. "Sherlock, please…for me."

"Mycroft already had his medical team examine me."

"But they are not your doctor, are they?"

Sherlock smiled. "All right," he conceded. "Let's go to my room."

John cursed out loud when he examined Sherlock properly. Mycroft had not been exaggerating; if anything, he had understated. Sherlock was really not in a good state; his body bore witness to his battles. The scars, bruises and bandages did nothing to diminish his beauty, though. If anything, Sherlock was even more beautiful now. John shut the door on that line of thought and watched his friend dress again.

Sherlock handed him a file and John flipped through the test reports and prescriptions of Mycroft's medics, and realised he would have to keep an extremely close eye on his friend to ensure he actually took his pills.

"You are not leaving my line of sight," he told the detective firmly.

Sherlock scowled. "You are overreacting."

"I don't care if I am!" John's temper snapped. "I won't – I can't – lose you again!"

Sherlock stared at the carpet, unable to respond.

"You are a married man, John," Sherlock whispered, not looking up at his friend. "You have your wife and child to look after. I will be fine."

John rubbed his face. "I have you to look after, too," he said quietly. "Your brother gave us some details – but not enough. I trust you will tell me more?"

Sherlock hesitated.

"You have my word that nothing you say to me will be repeated to Mary unless you or Mycroft expressly say so," John said, his voice sombre.

Sherlock nodded and launched into his tale.

John was pale and shaking by the time he finished. "Jesus Christ," he whispered. "One of you gone bad…"

Sherlock shook his head. "Sherrinford his smarter," he said. "Mycroft said so. He is…"

"…never wrong," John finished. "Yes, I know." He rubbed his face again. "Jesus. What do we do, Sherlock? If that maniac is even half of what Mycroft thinks he is, especially with two more Moriarty brothers, we need both you and Mycroft…and your brother seems…sort of…resigned to his own death."

Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Mycroft has been under a lot of pressure lately."

"Are you all right with this?" John asked. "With Jim being your…nephew?"

Sherlock shrugged. "I wonder if Jim knew."

"So…the other two…what are they called again?"

"Jacques Frost and Jonathan Mason. Jack is a small-time actor and spends most of his time in and out of mental institutions. Jon is a Professor of Mathematics at UCL."

Something clicked in John's mind. "Hold on," he said. "This professor – married? To Kate or Cathy or something similar?"

Sherlock nodded and beamed at John as they realised the same thing. "Her husband is three people?" Sherlock asked.

John was frantically searching through his emails. "Found it!" he crowed. "Kate Mason, married to Professor Jon Mason!"

"Good work, John," Sherlock told him. "Let's look at that mail again."

"Dear Mr Holmes:

My husband is three people, I am quite sure. He has three distinct personalities (Playful Jon, Crazy Jon and Normal Jon), and even subtly different physical features (his moles and freckles move around), so it may not be split personalities, and he has no known family. I have already consulted a psychiatrist, a demonologist, a genealogist and now I'm coming to you. I have put up with this for five years, and I am at the end of my tether because Crazy Jon is appearing more and more often. Playful Jon disappeared about two and a half years ago. Please help. I fell in love with and married Normal Jon, and I want my husband back.

Regards, Kate Mason"

"You said they were triplets – and I mailed her," John said. "She wrote back with a thank you, and that she had spoken to her husband, and he had apologised for the deception. He told her that the triplets had been separated at birth and met quite by accident, and it was a harmless joke they played, pretending to be another. He assured her that one was dead and the other institutionalised, and she would not face this issue again." John frowned. "It fits the facts, but…"

"Moriarty's face was plastered all over media, John. How did she not recognise him?"

"You think she's in on it? But then, why would she contact you?"

"She has to be. If she notices differing mole patterns on her husband, she can hardly be unobservant enough to miss the face."

John could hardly argue with that. "Why contact you, then?"

"Boredom?"

"She's one, too?" John sighed. "I'm sick and tired of psychopaths."

"You could change your name and move to Burkina Faso."

John laughed. "Only if you come along."

Sherlock smiled. "I'm one, too."

"Yes, but I'm miserable without you," John quipped.

Sherlock smirked. John's heart fluttered. Not gay, he told himself firmly.

"So…should we get in touch with Kate Mason?" he asked instead.

Sherlock scowled. "My brother has me under house-arrest. I suppose we can send his minions, though."

"Or you could send your best man," John said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Too dangerous."

"And when have I cared about that?"

"You are a family man now, John."

"You are my family, too, you idiot. You are mine to protect, too."

"And you are clearly affected by Mary's hormones."

John took a deep breath. "Sherlock, I know sentiment makes you uncomfortable, and I am sorry to bleed feelings all over you, but you have to know how important you are to me."

"I know, John," Sherlock said softly. "And I also know that if it comes down to a choice between Mary and I, you will have to choose Mary, or you would never be able to forgive yourself or me."

John shook his head.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "What has my brother been saying to you?"

"Things you should have said to me much, much before." John put a gentle hand on the detective's shoulder. "You are not alone, Sherlock. You will always have me, whether you want me or not."

"Mary makes you happy," Sherlock said. "I will not take that away from you."

"You make me happy, and she tried to take you away from me."

"She didn't have a choice. Magnussen…"

"There is always a choice," John said sternly. "And what about the other two times?"

Sherlock stepped back, his face a picture of shock. "What other times?"

John stared. "You don't know. You really don't know."

"Know what, John?"

"Mycroft said Mary tried to kill you three times…and that you had probably not noticed the other two attempts because you were blinded by sentiment."

Sherlock's face settled into a cold mask. "Get out, John. I need to think."

With a sinking heart, John left his best friend and went in search of his wife. He needed to know the truth, and if he couldn't get it from the Holmes brothers, he would get it from his wife.

He found Mary curled up on the bed, watching TV.

"What were the other two attempts?" John asked without preamble.

Mary blinked. "Really, you want to do this now?"

"Yes." John stared at her levelly. "Would you prefer if I asked Mycroft?"

Mary sighed.

"I wasn't really trying to kill him," she said. "If I did, he would already be dead."

"You stopped his heart. Twice."

"I could have shot him through the head." Mary switched off the TV. "He has done worse to you. Why are you so angry with me?"

"Because he faked his death to protect his friends. He sacrificed himself, gave up his life, his work, everything, to protect you, so I could be happy. You nearly killed him and he still did his best to reconcile us." John looked away. "And you – you did nothing but manipulate me from the day we met. Sherlock does not know it yet – but I bet Mycroft does – you were working for Moriarty, weren't you?"

"So you did read the pen drive."

John shook his head. "I wish I had." He fixed his eyes on his wife. "I still care for you, Mary. I hope you will not make me regret that."

Mary tugged the blanket closer.

"When Magnussen put you in the fire and sent me to get Sherlock to rescue you, I injected him with a cocktail of drugs just before we got off the bike. It should have knocked him out – he should have been unable to think straight enough to get you out. He would have been trapped in the fire, and I would have pulled you out. I'd have tried to get him out, but failed. The drugs had no effect. I thought I might have ended up drugging his bloody coat instead of his skin." She looked up at her husband. "It was a half-hearted attempt at best, trust me."

John remained silent.

"The second time was at our wedding. I sent a drug dealer his way when he left; I thought he might overdose." Mary stared at the blanket. "The third time, I shot him in Magnussen's office. Obviously I missed any vital organ."

John stared at his wife.

She smiled wistfully. "I am quite fond of him, you know. I didn't like him at first – I thought he did you more harm than good, and that he might take you away from me…but then I realised that he loved you too much to do anything that would make you unhappy. And I made you happy."

John said nothing.

"I know he makes you happy, too," Mary said quietly. "I understand that you need him almost as much as he needs you. But he is not your pressure point, John; I am. I know you want to protect him. I will help you as much as I can, I promise. Sherlock brought you back to me, and he saved my life. I owe him for that. I always pay my debts."

John nodded and left.

He came across Mycroft in the hallway. The British Government looked even more exhausted than before. He greeted John with a wan smile and stumbled.

"Jesus, Mycroft," John swore as he rushed forward to steady the man. "What is wrong with you?"

"I am perfectly fine, John. Thank you for your concern."

"I am a fully qualified doctor, you know."

Mycroft smiled slightly. "I do."

"And I insist on a full check-up right now," John said firmly. He spotted Sherlock across the hallway and called out.

Sherlock was by their side in an instant. "What happened?" he asked urgently.

Mycroft pushed John away and drew himself up. "Worry not, brother mine. A momentary lapse. Perhaps it would be prudent to get some sleep."

"Oh no, you don't," John said. "Either you let me examine you or you get your medical team here to do so while I look over their prognosis."

"They are perfectly qualified, Dr Watson," Mycroft retorted.

"Yes, but they might be afraid of you," John said simply. "Which may affect their ability to deal with you."

Sherlock laughed and Mycroft sighed.

XXX

Mycroft had, predictably, overstretched himself. John gave him an earful and commandeered a room, putting both Holmes brothers to bed. He even threatened to call Mummy before Mycroft and Sherlock relented.

"We need you both functioning at full capacity," he said firmly. "Not even you two can argue with that."

Anthea teamed up with John and cleared Mycroft's schedule for the next few days. The much-needed rest benefitted both brothers, and two days later, they had improved visibly. It helped that John made Sherlock happy, and seeing Sherlock happy made Mycroft happy.

On the third day, when Sherlock had wandered off to get his violin, Mycroft and John had a "grown up" talk.

"Thank you, John," Mycroft said softly. "With you by his side, my brother will make it through."

"With both of us by his side, Mycroft," John corrected gently. "He needs you as much as he needs m – probably more."

Mycroft's silence spoke louder than words.

"You knew about Mary, didn't you?" John asked. "You said she made three attempts on Sherlock's life. You knew about the drugs at the fire and the dealer after the wedding. Why did you let it happen?"

Mycroft sighed. "Sherlock's drug tolerance is very high, John. That little cocktail took hours to take effect, and by that time we had already administered the…antidote, if you will. Sherlock had no idea; he had inhaled smoke and he had some rather painful burns. He barely paid attention to the medication being administered to him." He sighed again. "He almost overdosed after your wedding. Luckily, I was waiting for him at Baker Street when he returned, and I was able to persuade him otherwise."

"And you let Mary be."

"She is your wife, John. Sherlock would never forgive me if I caused her harm."

"But not anymore?"

"We have bigger threats to neutralise." Mycroft's eyes hardened. "I can deal with Sherlock's hatred. I refuse to deal with his death. Sherlock must be protected at all costs, John, even from himself. I cannot stress this enough. It is absolutely vital that Sherlock lives."

John smiled. "He will."

Mycroft nodded gratefully.

"And so will you," John added.

Mycroft shrugged. "Irrelevant."

John opened his mouth to speak, but Anthea's appearance cut him off.

"I'm afraid I have bad news, Sir," she said. "We were unable to interrogate Kate Mason. She was found dead in her kitchen this morning. Her husband is in Vienna for a conference and is flying back as we speak."

"Any clue who killed her?" John asked.

Anthea shook her head. "The police think it was an accident. She was electrocuted by a malfunctioning microwave oven."

"He killed his wife so we couldn't question her," John muttered. "Jesus."

"Status of #1 and #3?" Mycroft asked.

"#1 is still incarcerated. #3 is in therapy. His whereabouts are accounted for."

"Intimate my brother, please." Anthea nodded at Mycroft's command and left.

Mycroft turned to John. "Sherlock trusts your wife, and I don't. But then again, I don't trust anyone except my brother, to an extent." He levelled a steely look at the soldier. "However, I can promise you that no harm shall come to your wife until she betrays either you or Sherlock. Your child will be protected at all costs at all times."

John nodded gratefully.

"This is too repetitive. It is tedious," Mycroft complained.

John laughed. "You're just like your brother," he said.

Mycroft looked affronted.

Sherlock appeared, grinning ear to ear. "We have a case, John!"

"You are not leaving the house," Mycroft said sternly.

"I will run away," Sherlock threatened. "Put your minions around Baker Street if you must; I can't stay here any longer. You are driving me mad."

Mycroft pursed his lips. "No."

"Your fear is irrational. I am not putting up with you anymore," Sherlock snapped.

"I am trying to keep you alive, you idiot!" Mycroft was close to losing his temper.

"What is the point of living if I can't do anything I want?" Sherlock yelled. "I'd rather be dead!"

Mycroft sprang from his bed and towered over his little brother. "How dare you?" he demanded, his voice colder than ice. "You made me a promise, and you couldn't even last a week."

"I suppose you should have expected it then," Sherlock snarled. "After all, when have I ever been anything but a disappointment to you, as you are so fond of reminding me again and again?"

"Why won't you ever do as you are told?" Mycroft hissed.

"Why do you always need to control everything?" Sherlock shot back.

John threw up his arms. "Boys, calm down," he said firmly.

"I am leaving," Sherlock announced and stormed out.

Mycroft fell to his knees. John helped him up. As soon as he was upright, Mycroft waved him away.

"Go with him, John," the British Government said. "Keep him safe. I will have your wife sent back to your home."

John ran after his best friend.

An hour later, Anthea appeared. "Sir, both of them have escaped."

"Ford and Jack?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea nodded.

"Very well," Mycroft said. "Alert Sherlock and John. Double security and surveillance on my brother. He must not be left alone for a single moment."

Mycroft called his parents after Anthea left. Mummy wanted to come over to London immediately, but he managed to dissuade them. No point in handing out more targets to Ford.

He called Sherlock next, but his stubborn little brother refused to answer the call. Sighing, he sent a text. Ford and Jack are out. Be careful.

Then, Mycroft Holmes locked himself in the bathroom and for the first time in three decades, broke down and wept.

XXX

One week later, Sherlock was taken.