Sherlock stared moodily into the empty fireplace as he indexed his most recent thoughts and categorised them appropriately – not that there was anything particularly worth saving. He frowned, pulling his legs up onto the seat and wrapping his arms around them as the chill of the early morning crept through his dressing gown.

It had been two weeks now since his return, which meant nearly three since 'The Vanishing Thieves' had struck – they'd never left it so long before. John had theorised that they had stopped out of fear, since the world's only consulting detective was back in business, and Sherlock had given the possibility due consideration before dismissing it. However, it now occurred to him to wonder whether John had been entirely serious in his suggestion or whether he had been, to quote one of his own phrases, 'taking the piss'.

Sherlock's frown deepened. Usually he did not have to guard against such mockery from John, but there was no question that the man was not himself at the moment. There had been no further reference to his odd outburst of jealousy over Irene, but he seemed… smaller? Sherlock shook his head irritably. No, that was a ridiculous choice of word; how could John be any smaller? No, he was… Sherlock pulled up his mental thesaurus.

Smaller… Lesser… Inferior… No. Restart.

Reduced… Diminished… Stop. Diminished.

Associations…

Music: Diminished chords, lacking tonal centre or drive, considered dissonant or unstable… Unstable.

Sherlock got to his feet. An unstable John was not acceptable. He strode to the sofa, but then didn't feel like sitting on it. His own sofa. Things weren't right. For six long months he had been picturing his home and now that he was back it didn't feel at all as he remembered. Sherlock moved to the window, wishing he could see a new case on the horizon. That would help. A new case always made everything better.

oOo

"My girlfriend is too attractive."

Only a few hours later, and it seemed that Sherlock had got his wish. He sat back in his armchair and regarded their new potential client, determined to give him the benefit of his considerable doubt. It wasn't as if they had been flooded with business since his return – the 'Suicide of Fake Genius' headlines had been much larger and more memorable than the 'Detective Reinstated' ones.

John spoke quickly from his seat at the table, no doubt trying to pre-empt a scathing response. "Er… do you want to expand on that, Mr…?"

The man smiled nervously. "Oh – it's Jenkins, Gary Jenkins."

A suitably bland name for a singularly unimposing individual.

"I'm sorry, I know I sound daft…"

No one denied this.

"…but the more I think about it, the more worried I get. I mean, I'm not much to look at…"

No one argued with that either.

"…and I don't have much money, or an exciting job, or anything."

"What do you do, Mr Jenkins?" Sherlock enquired.

"I'm an insurance clerk."

Sherlock's interest level dipped dangerously close to his 'interview terminated' threshold.

"I met Deborah through an internet dating site." Jenkins offered a scrap of paper with a web address and login details, which Sherlock glanced at then held out to the side until John took it from his fingers.

"When she got in touch I was dubious, because she didn't have a photo up, which usually means… well…" He shrugged. "Nothing good, I guess. But I hadn't had many offers and she seemed nice, so I agreed to meet her. Couldn't believe my eyes when she turned up – she's absolutely gorgeous." He leaned to the side, reaching into his trouser pocket to produce a mobile phone. "She doesn't like having her picture taken but I managed to snap a shot when she went to the bar at dinner last night."

He pressed a few buttons then passed the phone to Sherlock. There was a low whistle as John peered at it over his shoulder.

"You are not wrong, Mr Jenkins."

Sherlock angled the phone away from him. The woman was tall and slender with long flame-red hair – wig, he decided immediately – and an admittedly inoffensive profile. He handed the device back.

"Oh, call me 'Gary', please," Jenkins requested. "I figured I'd never hear from her again after that first drink, but we've been dating for two weeks now and then last night…" He trailed off.

"Last night?" John prompted, passing Sherlock his laptop with Gary Jenkins' profile page showing on the screen. His user name was 'RocketMan75'.

"Yes, do please satisfy my flatmate's prurient curiosity," Sherlock invited, his eyes quickly scanning the page. "I'm sure we're all dying to know what happened last night." He produced his most insincere smile, but the clearly dim Gary Jenkins seemed to take it at face value.

"Well, she wants us to go away for the weekend. Together, I mean. Tomorrow, in fact." He shrugged. "Obviously I said 'yes', but then I got to thinking."

"That must have been a tremendous strain," murmured Sherlock sympathetically. John kicked his chair, which he found oddly reassuring.

Gary nodded. "Yes… yes, it has been a strain. I mean, I don't want to be ungrateful, but this kind of thing just doesn't happen, does it? I mean – she's a definite ten… and I'm only a fi…"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"… four, at best," Gary finished. "I mean, she's very nice, but you've got to admit it's peculiar." He spread his hands wide. "Things I don't understand make me nervous."

Sherlock's chair got a warning kick before he'd even opened his mouth that time. He concentrated on the facts. "I'm very glad you brought this to my attention, Mr Jenkins. I shall start work immediately."

He got "Really?" in stereo as both client and flatmate spoke at once. Sherlock turned his head.

"He's absolutely right, John - the attractiveness ratio is entirely disproportionate. This 'Deborah' must certainly have some other motivation."

John sighed. "Looks aren't everything, Sherlock. You might meet someone socially, or in an office environment, say, whose personality just fits you – maybe you're not particularly attracted to them at first, perhaps they're not your usual type, but as time goes by and you get to know them, spend time with them, gradually you realise…" His voice trailed off.

"Yes, but that's not the case here, is it, John?" Sherlock jumped in immediately. "She found him on a dating site - all she'd got to go on were a photograph, an extremely bland résumé and a rather risqué joke about a parrot." He frowned. "Are you all right? You've gone a funny colour."

"Fine. I'm fine." John flapped a hand at him. "You carry on."

Sherlock turned back to their client. "What are your arrangements for tomorrow?"

"She said she'd call round to my place at seven and we could go from there. I don't know where she lives, actually – she's very reserved about herself." He lowered his voice. "That's another thing that worries me – what if she's married?" He shook his head. "Although I'm hardly 'affair' material."

"Indeed." Sherlock contemplated the sweaty palms before him and decided against getting up. "John will see you out. Do nothing for twenty-four hours – I'll be in touch." He focused on the laptop and ignored the resigned snort from over his shoulder.

oOo

"You register a woman's bra size before you notice her eye colour."

John froze in the doorway as he returned from escorting their new client to the door – although why Sherlock had decided to take the case, he had no idea; it didn't seem his kind of thing at all. He raised a hand, pinching the bridge of his nose between fingers and thumb as the words sank in and he grasped their foundation.

"The blush?"

"Made me replay your speech, yes."

John nodded. It seemed that Sherlock had finally decided to deal with the elephant that had been lurking in the room ever since his outburst a fortnight ago. John moved to his armchair and sat down.

Sherlock regarded him over the top of steepled fingers. "You are straight."

"I am practical."

Sherlock frowned.

John sighed. "In normal civilian life, I would predominantly pursue women, yes. But there are other reasons for that and I've been around, Sherlock. One doesn't pick up the kind of nicknames I know you've heard from some of my army mates by being… well… 'straight-laced', for want of a better term."

There was a short silence while Sherlock appeared to ponder that. "So, is this why? This new found... 'attraction', if that's the word - is this why you've been so 'off' since I came back?"

"Not remotely."

Sherlock's frown deepened. "I don't understand."

"I know you don't." John sighed again. "Look, it's not your fault," he promised. "Even leaving any… 'attraction' completely out of it, I've obviously built our friendship up into much more in my head than it ever really was, at least on your side." He shrugged. "Not fair to blame you for that."

"John, I…" Sherlock actually looked quite distressed - he always hated not understanding things.

"It's all right. I know you don't feel things that way. I just… I guess I thought I was different, you know? That I meant more to you." He managed a half smile. "I suppose everyone wants to think they're special – bit daft really."

He got to his feet. "Cup of tea?" Sherlock didn't answer so John headed for the kitchen, busying himself with the familiar task. He actually felt a little better – his own words reminded him that it was still a thousand times better to have the real Sherlock back than for the rather idealised version John had clung to for six months to be dead.

"You've lost friends before." Sherlock's voice was subdued from the kitchen doorway. John didn't look round. "People you were close to, even."

"Yes, I have." He reached up to the cupboard and took down two mugs.

"Why did you use my shampoo?"

The mugs clattered as they impacted the worktop with a little more force than planned. John took a steadying breath. "No," he said firmly. "No, Sherlock."

"The bottle in the shower is fuller than the one I left behind and it's the new design - they changed the packaging two months ago. You don't use that brand, it's far too 'fancy'."

"Sherlock, I said 'No'." John turned his head and met the frustrated gaze which was trying to unravel him. "Drop it."

Sherlock looked away first. John regarded his unhappy face for a moment and then moved towards the fridge, continuing with his routine as the kettle gradually came to the boil, then clicked off, leaving a silence which seemed too big for the room.

Sherlock broke it. "I told you in Dartmoor that you were my only friend."

"Yes, you did. And that's a memory which I've replayed many times while I thought you were dead." John squashed his teabag against the inside of his mug with a spoon to get the maximum strength out of it. "It's only since you returned that I thought about it a bit more logically... because you must have already got the sugar by then, right? The sugar you thought was drugged."

He decided his teabag had given all it had to give, and scooped it out of the mug after a final squeeze, dumping the bedraggled remains onto a convenient saucer.

"But how could you dope me if we weren't speaking? You had to apologise - and you had to make it good enough that I would drink something you gave me, even though I don't take sugar in my coffee. I would drink it simply because you made it for me." He regarded the dead teabag, then took the saucer over to the bin and tipped it into the rubbish.

"So I got an apology and an ego-boost... and then I drank your supposedly drugged coffee like a little lamb, didn't I? Job well done, really." He sorted out Sherlock's tea and put it on the table, then leaned back against the worktop, cradling his own cup in both hands.

Sherlock seemed disconcerted.

"Look, it's all right," John reassured him. "I'm glad to have you back, OK? You're still my best friend and I'm… well, I'm one of yours."

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock took a step forward into the kitchen. "You are the one with lots of friends, the popular one, the one that everybody likes."

"Don't know about the Chief Superintendent."

"What?" Sherlock waved away the interruption. "You're talking in riddles. In view of later events, perhaps I would no longer describe you as my 'only' friend, but you are outstandingly the most important – surely you must see that?"

"Must I?"

"Of course." Sherlock looked utterly bewildered. John almost felt sorry for him.

"Well, that's it you see - you've put your finger on the problem right there."

"Which is?"

John shrugged. "I don't believe you."

oOo

"I don't know how the hell you got on to this!"

Lestrade loudly announced his arrival the next morning, staggering into the kitchen and dumping two boxes of files onto the table. He looked from John, twisting in his armchair to say 'hello', to Sherlock, who was getting up from the living room table and heading towards him. "Everything all right?"

"Fine." Sherlock reached for the uppermost box and flipped open the lid, immediately diving into the contents.

"New case?" asked John, getting up and offering a bland smile.

Lestrade frowned. Something was off.

"You tell me," he said. "Got a call last night from your man here, wanting unsolved murders for the last few years with a victim named Gary." He patted the boxes. "Narrowed it down a bit by age and limiting to single-victim cases, and these two jumped out."

Sherlock threw a photograph of a very ordinary looking man down onto the table. "Gary Mulligan, found dead in his car on the outskirts of the city two years ago, fatal stab wound to the neck, thought to have been a car-jacking gone wrong." He was running through interview notes as he spoke, his eyes flickering as he speed-read the details.

"Yes!" He glanced up at John. "His mother mentioned he'd recently started dating a 'Debbie' – no one had met her and she was never identified or considered relevant."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Really? That's a bit of a coincidence!" He looked at Lestrade, then at the boxes on the table. "Or not." He shook his head. "How the hell…?"

Sherlock had moved on to the second box and another picture arrived beside the first – again a man who appeared to be the personification of 'nondescript'.

"Gary Benson," Lestrade informed John. "Also found in his car, though stabbed in the chest this time and it was twelve months back – I didn't notice anything about a girlfriend?"

He looked up at Sherlock, who was flicking rapidly through the information and now frowned and shook his head, then thrust a sheet of paper at John.

"Call the sister, would you?"

John nodded and retreated to the living room, pulling his phone out of his pocket as he went. Lestrade looked at Sherlock.

"What's going on?"

Sherlock glanced up at him. "Serial killer. I told you."

Lestrade reached out and put his hand over the file Sherlock was studying, pushing it down onto the table. "I mean with John. Or rather, with you and John."

Sherlock's face assumed a truly remarkable level of blankness. "Catching criminals no longer doing it for you, Lestrade? What is this? CID Oprah?"

Lestrade kept his voice low. "Has he talked to you?"

"He talks to me all the time. We live together."

"I would say, 'You know what I mean,' but I guess it's quite possible that you don't. Has he talked to you? Do you have any understanding of what you put him through?"

Sherlock glared at him. "Give me the file." He tugged on the edge of the papers he was still holding, but Lestrade didn't release them. "And mind your own damn business."

"You weren't here," Lestrade muttered. "I'm the one who had to watch him diving into dangerous situations and caring less about surviving them each time. And I don't need your observational skills to see that he's still not right."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "If John is broken, then I will fix him. I've done it before. Get off the file."

"Good news!" John walked back into the kitchen, his gaze focused on the notepad in his hand. "The sister says there was a recent girlfriend, although they never met. Can't remember her name, but she thinks it began with a 'D'."

He looked up and blinked. "Everything all right?"

"Fine," Sherlock replied, jerking the file out from under Lestrade's hand and retreating with it to the living room.

Lestrade offered a possibly unconvincing smile. "So, John… want to tell me how he got onto this?"

Five minutes later, they were both standing in front of Sherlock's chair.

"It had to be the name," he said without looking up. "Nothing else could have attracted that woman to that profile – unless she had an affinity for bad jokes about birds, which seemed significantly less likely."

"OK," drawled Lestrade slowly. "I'm not totally convinced, but you've certainly struck lucky. So how...?"

Sherlock jumped to his feet and closed the file he was holding, almost smacking Lestrade in the chest as he thrust it back at him.

"Why would a woman – an attractive woman – approach a man like Gary Jenkins? Can't be his winning personality since a) she's never met him, and b) he doesn't have one. So, why? What's the draw? His photo shows a study in mediocrity – no one sets their heart on a thin mouth above an indeterminate chin. If she wanted blue eyes, there are much bluer available; if she likes a snub nose, there are plenty on the site not adorned with acne scarring."

He moved to the table and turned his laptop around, displaying an image of the man in question. Lestrade had to grant that his description had not been overly harsh.

"So… name. But what's in a name? Who cares about the name of their target? Unless they're in that ridiculous play Mrs Hudson made us sit through – the one with the handbag…" He looked to John, then waved his arm in dismissal. "Never mind."

"'Importance of Being Earnest'," John whispered to Lestrade. "Apology theatre visit with Mrs Hudson last week."

Lestrade grinned. Anyone who could guilt-trip Sherlock Holmes into a social outing had balls of solid steel, in his opinion. He resolved to buy the landlady a bunch of flowers at the earliest opportunity. Or possibly a bullwhip.

Sherlock was off again. "What swindler only wants to cheat people called Gary? No..." He shook his head. "Obsession with a particular name suggests a much darker motive – and if she's doing it now, she may have done it before." He was addressing his words largely to Lestrade but kept glancing towards John, who remained silent.

"Right," murmured Lestrade, thinking about it. "So, if she's intending your client to be her third 'Gary', we can pick her up tonight – when she goes to pick him up."

"And charge her with what? Dating a twit? You're going to need a much bigger jail."

John's lips twitched at that, which Sherlock's smirk suggested he'd noticed.

"Well, we can't just wait until she knifes him!" Lestrade protested.

"No, not at all," Sherlock agreed. "I suggest you go and bug his car, stake out his no-doubt drab apartment, put a stab-vest on him, be 'police-like'." He waved his hands in a 'Go on' motion.

"And what are you going to do?"

Sherlock indicated the boxes in the kitchen. "We will go through the existing evidence and look for anything you can use to convict her."

Lestrade sighed and glanced towards John, who was already pushing up his sleeves and moving into the kitchen. "I'll just go and…"

"No need," Sherlock cut him off. "We'll call you as soon as we find anything. You can talk to John later." He waved an arm towards the door. "Come on – places to go, people to save. Chop chop."

Lestrade still wavered.

"I'll see you out."

Having been encouraged to descend the stairs at something above his usual pace, Lestrade hesitated on the front step, glancing back up the way they'd come. "I feel like I'm leaving a wounded animal in the care of the world's most dangerous carnivore," he said worriedly. "You will…?"

"Go away." Sherlock shut the door in his face.

Lestrade took it as a positive sign.

oOo

"So, where are we going?"

Sherlock glanced round at John's confused looking face as their taxi trundled across London. "Headquarters of 'matchme' dot com," he replied.

"Oh, right." John nodded. "And why are we going there?"

His heart didn't seem to be in the enquiry. Sherlock leaned across and tapped him on the temple. "Think, John! What does this case hinge on?"

"Er…" John's eyebrows rose at the sudden poking, but he didn't pull away. "The name?" He wrinkled his forehead, then his face cleared into something resembling his old enthusiasm. "Which wasn't given on the website!"

Sherlock nodded encouragingly at him. "Keep going."

"So… oh - you think she works there?"

"Well, she could be a hacker, but employee is more likely."

John was smiling at him admiringly and Sherlock allowed himself a moment to bask in it.

It didn't last. "So how come you fobbed off Lestrade with that 'going through the files' story?"

Sherlock just looked at him.

John sighed, but he didn't look surprised – or even, Sherlock was pleased to note, disappointed.

They still had some distance to go and Sherlock soon found himself asking another question. "What are the 'other reasons'?"

"Hmm?" John turned away from his in depth analysis of the window and looked round.

"You said that you 'predominantly pursue women, but there are other reasons for that'," Sherlock quoted. "What 'other reasons'?"

"Oh, no." John shook his head. "If personal stuff is out of bounds, then it's out of bounds – I'm not laying bare the few things you can't deduce for yourself, thank you very much." He looked away again. "This street is one-way enough as it is."

Sherlock frowned. How was he supposed to fix John without having all the information?

He considered his options for a few minutes. "I'm not a virgin."

John's head whipped round as if it were on a bungee cord.

Sherlock shrugged. "I know you've wondered. Well, I'm not. No matter what Moriarty thought."

John looked a little thrown by Moriarty's sudden inclusion in the conversation, but he quite visibly decided not to ask.

"I… dabbled at university," Sherlock continued. "But it was a distraction - a weakness. Not worth my time."

"Dabbled," John echoed unnecessarily. "Right. So no actual relationships?"

Sherlock shrugged again. "Certainly not on my part."

John's expression had 'poor buggers' written all over it. "Men or women?"

"A representative selection."

"Of course. Stupid question, sorry."

"Your turn."

"What?"

"Isn't that how these things work? I showed you mine…"

John bit his lip.

"Is that not the phrase?"

"No. I mean 'yes' – that's the phrase. You got it right." He seemed to be struggling not to laugh.

Sherlock quirked a brow at him.

"Right. Yes. Sorry. Um… What was your question again?" He sobered, answering himself. "Oh, 'other reasons'… right." He grimaced. "I can't believe I'm actually going to tell you this."

Sherlock's attention sharpened. New information about John was always interesting.

John looked at his face. "Oh, God." He closed his eyes for a moment. "OK, right. Fine." He drew a deep breath. "I'm used to taking orders, yes?"

Sherlock nodded. "The army, then me. You enjoy it."

John glared at him. "I put up with it, Sherlock. Not the same thing."

"If you say so."

"I do say so."

"Is this relevant to the issue of your orientation?"

John grimaced. "I… it's connected." He looked away. "When it comes to… personal relationships…"

"You mean sex." Sherlock checked, without quite making it a question. "Oh! It carries over? You like taking orders…"

"No."

"No?"

"Very much 'no'." He glanced back, then away again, the colour rising up his neck.

"Very much… oh." Sherlock frowned. "Like Irene?"

It was unquestionably the wrong thing to say.

By the time they arrived at their destination, Sherlock had been informed in no uncertain terms that a preference for being assertive in the bedroom by no means indicated a desire to inflict pain, a tendency to blackmail, or the inclination to throw in one's lot with a master-criminal. He still hadn't worked out why it made John act straighter than he was, but it was extremely clear that now was not the time to ask.

oOo

"Shh!"

"You shh!"

"John!" Sherlock snapped. "Will you be quiet?" He concentrated on what he was doing until the tumblers clicked into place and Deborah Martin's front door swung open. They were both inside a second later.

Sherlock scanned their surroundings then nodded John towards the desk visible through the open lounge door, himself heading towards the bedroom, where he immediately began to search for anything which wasn't meant to be found.

The head of 'matchme' had been very helpful once Sherlock had flashed one of Lestrade's badges and – he was forced to admit – John had flashed his innocent blue eyes. A quick perusal of the personnel files had soon identified the woman snapped on Gary Jenkins' phone.

"Psst - Sherlock!" John's voice was a low hiss and Sherlock rolled his eyes as he moved to join him, finding the lounge now illuminated by a desk lamp.

"There's no need to resort to sibilance, John. The murderous Ms Martin will be well en route to her third intended victim by now."

"Look at this." John was holding out a framed photograph from a selection on top of the desk. Honestly, didn't people make any effort to hide incriminating evidence any longer? Where was the challenge?

Sherlock took the photo. It showed a younger Deborah Martin, perched on the bonnet of the type of car commonly associated with 'boy racers'. A plain young man had an arm wrapped around her shoulders, keys displayed proudly in his other hand, and the car itself was striped, tinted and modified to the point where the original manufacturer may have struggled to recognise it. A darker strip across the top of the windscreen displayed the names 'Gary' over the driver's side and 'Deb' on the right.

"The original Gary?" John offered.

"Quite likely."

"Wonder what happened to him?"

Sherlock set the picture down and moved to the other end of the large desk, pulling open the uppermost drawer and starting to look through the contents. "I would imagine he dumped her – and after she had done him the huge favour of dating someone less attractive than herself. Clearly a very resentment-inducing offence."

John looked about to respond when the sound of the front door banging caused them both to freeze and he scrambled for the light switch instead, plunging them into darkness.

They waited as heels clicked across the parquet hall, then the door swung open and Deborah Martin appeared in the gap, her face filling with anger as she reached into her handbag.

John was already raising a hand in a calming gesture and starting to speak when she shot him.

Everything stopped. Then John's body started to fall and the world hit fast forward.

- Sherlock's hand on the surface of the desk, arm braced as he vaulted over it.
- Light from the open doorway glinting on metal as it swung towards him.
- Fingers closing around a wrist, crunch of small bones as he forced it upwards.
- Clatter of gun on the hardwood floor.
- Thud of assailant as she followed it down.
- Fabric in his hand as he gripped her collar and pulled head and shoulders up off the floor.
- "Pray he's alive." His voice sounding like nothing on earth.
- Crack of her head as he slammed it back down again.

"Sherlock..."

'Thank God'... Abandoning the unconscious woman, Sherlock reached the side of the desk in three long strides, dropping to his knees next to John, who was trying to sit up, one hand pressed to his side. The stain spreading under his fingers looked black in the dim light, a growing darkness which could suck them both into its depths.

"Lie down, you idiot!" Thrusting one hand under his head for support, Sherlock pushed John back down then scrabbled at his clothing, heaving jumper, shirt and T-shirt up and out of the way. So many layers. Who the hell needed so many fucking layers?

"I think it's just a graze." John was using his 'reassuring' voice, but Sherlock didn't trust it. He reached behind himself, finding the flex of the desk lamp and quickly tracking up until he reached the switch.

Black turned red and punched him in the chest.

"Honestly, Sherlock, I think it's fine." John was trying to sit up again. Sherlock pushed him back down.

"Will you stay still?" Gritting his teeth, he used the edge of John's T-shirt to wipe away some of the blood until he could see, could check, could be absolutely sure that there was no puncture wound, no bullet buried inside John's body and sucking his life away as Sherlock helplessly watched it leave.

He sat back on his heels. "You idiot!"

John propped himself up on one elbow and peered at the wound which ran along the line of one of his ribs. Messy. Painful. Definitely not life-threatening.

"Well, I'm very sorry." He didn't sound it. "How was I to know she'd have a bloody gun?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "Of course she had a gun! Everybody seems to have a gun these days. I don't know what the country's coming to." He pulled out his phone to call Lestrade.

"What is it now, Sherlock?" drawled his brother's voice.

"Mycroft? Why are you answering Lestrade's phone? No, never mind – I don't want to know. Put him on, will you?"

There was a short silence. "What's happened?"

"Just put him…"

"Sherlock, you called me. What has happened?" His voice was urgent.

Sherlock jerked the mobile away from his ear and looked at the display, which was indeed showing 'The Queen'.

He hung up.

oOo

"At least my getting shot distracted Lestrade from the breaking and entering," John pointed out as he settled into his armchair some three hours later. He was pumped full of lidocaine and clearly feeling no pain.

Sherlock wondered if it had affected his eyesight, as he didn't seem to notice that anything was wrong.

"Plus the fact that you'd just caught him another serial killer, of course." He grinned. "That was amazing, Sherlock – that you got all that just from a man saying his girlfriend was too attractive. Absolutely incredible." He nodded firmly. "You are brilliant. I always said so."

Sherlock sat down opposite and regarded him over the top of fingers which he couldn't keep entirely steady.

"I guess it helped too that it was the police who cocked up and got themselves spotted at Gary's flat," John added. "Because if we hadn't been at her place she could have packed up and scarpered long before they tracked her down." He smiled hopefully. "Any chance of a drink?"

"You let her shoot you."

John looked almost comically startled. "What?"

Sherlock sat forward in his chair, aware that the mask he'd managed to maintain through dealings with police and medical staff was starting to blur out of focus now that he was in an environment which registered as 'safe', with a man who triggered his awareness of 'home'. He frowned. Surely those should be the other way round?

"What do you mean?" John repeated.

Sherlock got to his feet. "You have to try harder than this." He looked at John, mentally replaying earlier moments - seeing him tip his head back as Moran's fingers squeezed around his throat, hearing Lestrade's voice warning about him 'caring less about surviving each time', watching him just standing there as Deborah Martin shot him.

He stepped forward, bending over John and gripping his shoulders. "The life we lead: you have to fight to survive it, do you understand me? You can't just let people shoot you like that." His voice sounded strange to his ears.

"But I… but Sherlock, she just shot at me – there wasn't anything I could have…"

Sherlock growled in frustration as his fingers briefly tightened, then he forced himself to move away, heaving in a lungful of the air which suddenly seemed to be in short supply. John wasn't trying hard enough – he gave up against Moran, he let himself get shot, he didn't grasp his own importance… didn't believe that he mattered.

"Sherlock, honestly, I don't understand…"

John had got to his feet. Sherlock turned around and he was just standing there… being so completely essential and not realising it at all.

"I can't lose you." Options ran through his mind and were instantly discarded. He had to prove to John that he had value, make him want to survive... make him determined to survive, but words weren't getting through - after everything that had happened, John simply didn't believe him. He had to do something tangible, provide some kind of evidence, give him something... give him… Oh! Stupid... stupid... obvious...

He strode back across the room, took John's face in his hands, and kissed him.