FINISHED UNI!

Here's a chapter to celebrate! Oh and I will start replying to reviews again - they have been lovely these past few weeks at keeping my spirits up :)


April 5th

Ava's excitement was so infectious that it seemed to make John temporarily snap out of the quiet, contemplative mood he'd been in for the past few days.

"Can I put the ticket through the machine?" Ava asked hopefully as she dragged her little suitcase behind her.

"Go on then," John said, brushing a hand through her hair.

Sherlock let loose a hiss of irritation which had John discreetly flip the finger at him as he showed Ava how to put the ticket into the barriers. Behind them a suited man huffed in annoyance and stormed into a barrier next to them.

"There you go." John smiled as the barrier opened up and Ava ducked through. It closed as John started to put his ticket through.

Ava didn't stop.

John's face drained of colour instantly, and Sherlock snarled, twisting to nip in front of someone else and through the barrier on their card.

"Hey-"

John wasn't quick enough with his injury but Sherlock was. He darted through and scooped her up quickly, bag and all.

"We'll miss the train," Ava complained.

"Do not do that again," Sherlock growled and her eyes widened in shock. "Do you hear me? You do not walk off ahead of us."

Behind him John caught up. "Bag," he reminded Sherlock with a tilt of his head.

Sherlock glanced over at the ticket staff, who were staring at him with pursed lips and folded arms that denoted attitude. And the woman who was glaring at him, waving her Oyster card, holding their bags hostage.

And then at Ava who was staring wide-eyed at him, as if just realising the magnitude of what might have happened.

And lastly back at John.

John reached out and gently squeezed his spare hand then inclined his head at their bags again.

Nodding, Sherlock let Ava down and strode back for their bags.


The fact that Ava wanted to sit by the window worked well for Sherlock; it allowed him and John to surround her without seeming like they were. The little girl seemed perfectly content to look out of the window with her nose pressed against the glass.

"You okay?"

Sherlock nodded, steepling his hands to his chin.

"Sure?"

"Fine," Sherlock said dismissively. "Foolish overreaction."

John glanced to the side at Ava and then back to Sherlock. "No," he soothed and reached out to tug Sherlock's hands down, brushing his thumb over the back of Sherlock's hands. "Not an overreaction."

Sherlock let his hand twist around John's. "How's your side?"

John nodded once, squeezed his hand and pulled back. "So, tell me about the case."

In the middle of Sherlock's theory, Ava shrieked.

"God almighty, the noise," he muttered to John, who shot him a grin and leaned over to look at what Ava was pointing to, almost cheek to cheek with Ava.

It was good to see John moving with ease.

"It's the real life sea!" Ava bit her lip with excitement. "Can we go and see it today?"

The real life sea? Sherlock shook his head and caught a glimpse of an elderly woman giving him a look that made him fear they were all about to have their cheeks pinched.

It was not a look that was often directed his way; it had hardly even happened when he had been a child himself.

It was disconcerting.

"-You were three the last time we went," John was saying, a deep frown forming on his face.

"Yeah," Ava said in a voice that suggested John was being stupid, "I'm nearly six. That's double three."

Nearly six? Sherlock shifted at the thought of that. It was a long way off yet, surely?

Still, her point was valid, once he untangled what she'd said. Besides, he could have told John Ava's earliest memory wouldn't reach back to her previous trip to Eastbourne.

Though that would have involved then telling John what her earliest memory was, which would probably just upset John.

From John's expression it was too late for that.

"John-" he started to say, to remind him that memory was a difficult thing; that Ava's lack of memory wasn't his fault and was in no way indicative that he'd been trying to erase Harry from Ava's life.

But John cut across him. "We went with...Auntie Harry," John said, laying his hands on the table, trying to calm himself.

Ava shrugged, seemingly unconcerned by the whole thing. And why wouldn't she be? To her Harry was a vague figure that bore little relevance on her life.

"You don't remember?" John pushed.

"John-" Sherlock started again. This was going nowhere and in a few minutes John would regret it if he pushed this any further.

"She did something naughty." Ava wrinkled her nose, and Sherlock was struck by the conversation they'd had a few days earlier. Clearly she was too, as the next words out of her mouth were: "Can I have an ice-cream when we go to the sea?"

John's fingers scraped at the table as they flexed to close. Then he stood.

"John-" It was useless. John shook his head fractionally as he limped off down the train.

Sherlock rose and then sat back, tilting into the aisle to watch John walk off down the train. John couldn't have planned it better if he had tried; Ava was far more restraining than handcuffs.

Ava twisted in her chair to watch John walk through the doors and into the next carriage. "Did I say something bad?" she asked, twisting back to him.

Sherlock sat back. This was dangerous territory; John was unusually sensitive about Harry and still strained from the mystery of the female body John had expected to hear about.

"No he's just being…" Sherlock trailed off, remembering who he was talking to. "You didn't say anything bad," he settled for saying.

Ava still looked unsure.


That night, after John had put Ava to sleep in the room next to theirs - connected and only accessible by the door in their room - John folded his arms.

"Go on then."

Sherlock tilted his head, examining John to see if he could get away with distracting him from this.

It looked highly unlikely.

"I was under the impression you didn't want to talk about it," Sherlock replied.

"Yet, here we are." John indicated with his arms. "You tricked me to get me here."

"Yes."

His honesty momentarily surprised John. "Right. Well…" He cleared his throat. "Tell me then. Every bloody thing you've deduced," he snapped.

Studying him, Sherlock picked up his coat. "No."

John looked away, then sank down on the bed. "Why are we here?" he asked quietly as Sherlock buttoned up his coat.

"I could snoop, John. I could find out what happened. I probably will." He wound his scarf around his neck. "But I am aware that there are two issues here and I am not sure where one ends and the other begins."

John stared at the bed. "The great Sherlock Holmes is unsure," he mocked bitterly.

Carefully, Sherlock stepped forward and nudged a finger under John's chin to raise his eyes and then dropped his hand when John looked up.

"If I push at you, if I manipulate you to give me data you do not want to give, it will not end well," Sherlock said slowly. "And I have done enough to you recently."

John swallowed and softened. "Then why am I here?"

"Because I need to know," Sherlock replied. "And I need you to willingly tell me."

John's eyes were dark when they locked gazes once more. John looked away first and twisted his hands in his lap.

"What do you already know?"

Sherlock crouched in front of John. "That you already have difficult memories of this place; that it has to do with Harry and the transfer of Ava's perception of which one of you was the parent. That you feel guilty because you were forced to choose between Ava and Harry, and while you do not regret your choice you cannot help but wonder if you still could have done more for Harry."

John snorted. "No matter how much I hear it, I still find that amazing," he sighed and seemed to steel himself. "And the other?"

Sherlock stared at John's side, a finger moving to gently stroke around the wound. "You thought it was the body of a woman."

John drew in a shaken breath.

"You didn't seriously think it was her, but it reminded you of the situation and there was a small chance it was her. But you're not sure…" Sherlock trailed off and looked up at John. "You're not wholly sure of what happened, yet still you feel the need to hide it."

John's jaw clenched and he drew in a deep breath.

"It was while I was away," Sherlock continued, putting the effort into keeping his voice soft and slow and steady. "And we have never discussed in detail what happened between you and Moriarty."

John tensed as if to move away, and Sherlock pushed his hands on John's thighs to keep him seated. He waited until John looked at him again.

"And your reaction has just told me that he has something to do with this," Sherlock added carefully.

John shook his head, eyes worryingly bright, and Sherlock clasped his shoulders. "Whatever he made you-" John tried to pull away and Sherlock tightened his grip. "Whatever he made you do, it was not your fault, John. Moriarty-"

"Stop." John leaned back and Sherlock moved to try and stop him, all too aware of the strain that would place on his side, but John shoved at him and Sherlock backed off.

"John-"

John shook his head. "Stop. Please."

Sherlock stood slowly, hands raised and spread.

Beyond their room he could hear the faint buzz of someone's television and a trio of friends leaving the bar and stumbling home.

"I have this case," Sherlock said into the silence between them. "We're out of London and currently out of Moriarty's sphere of interest. Deal with your issues about Harry while I deal with the case."

"And then?" John asked hoarsely.

"If he can use it. If he could use it, I need to know."

John nodded.

"Then I need to know. "

John was silent.


It wasn't necessary for him to leave for the Tinch case. He had a theory about that anyway, so he wouldn't need to work particularly hard to solve it.

No, what he needed was time.

A quick search on his phone was all it took. Missing persons in London around October. Assuming Ava had been correct he could narrow it further to the middle of October. Delete all males and children.

Narrow the search range…

Simone Bartlett. Last seen October 20th at the Shakespeare Hotel.

Where John had worked.

The date of the second screen cap.

He knew that name.

She'd been working for Sherlock.

Sort of.


Three years ago

He hated Dublin at this time of the year. It was cold, wet and merry. The Christmas music that John had played blared out of the pubs and stirred up memories Sherlock was sure he should delete.

He couldn't though. Nothing important could be deleted.

It was unlikely John would even recognise him now. Currently he had put on weight to fool Moriarty's trusted, dyed his hair, changed the cut and was wearing clothes he hated. His height couldn't be helped but he'd seen John change his stance enough times to see the value in hunching his shoulders and curling his back to change his attitude and perceptions of his height.

"You're not what I expected, darlin'," Simone crooned as she took a sip of wine.

"No?" he asked with a wink. God, he hated this role he had to play.

She let her eye roam over him and Sherlock mentally sighed. Still, it would be a good way to ensure a steady flow of information about Kyle McEwan if he started an affair with the man's girlfriend.

And, given that Kyle McEwan was one of the few people that had known Moriarty since he'd been a murderous teenager, it seemed uninteresting sex would be a low price to pay.

"No," Simone replied. "You reckon you're an old mate of Kyle's?" she asked, leaning back to trail her foot along the seam of his jeans.

Dull.

"Yeah." He grinned. "It's been years though," he added. "Thought I'd look him up in case he had any work going."

"Work?" she asked, her foot over his knee now and continuing in a steady way that had to be admired. Clearly she had wonderful muscles in her leg to keep the movement so flowing and without strain.

He let his eyes flicker down though, trying to gauge from what he'd seen in her face as to how far he could push her seduction and his reluctance to get on Kyle's bad side.

It was always so much easier when his contacts did all the work for him.

"I…" He shifted, as if unsure. "Yeah, he always knew everyone."

"And your…expertise," Simone questioned, toe almost at his crotch, "is what exactly?" She was actually licking her lips now.

Sherlock shifted and cleared his throat, dislodging her foot in the process. "Staying out of trouble," he said, forcing the self-deprecating, conflicted groan. "I know what Kyle's like."

Her lips pinched. Clearly she was not a woman used to hearing the word no. Her eyes darted fractionally-

Wait.

Sherlock scanned her again quickly as she recovered. Jewellery, clothes, hair, make-up, body…there was something.

Watch. Too heavy, too chunky and too cheap but new. Which ruled out sentimentality, gift giving and personal taste judging from the rest of her jewellery.

"Look." Sherlock shifted around in his pocket and drew out a piece of paper, scribbling one of his many numbers onto the paper. "I'm an electrician," he said with a smile, "I dunno if he'll even remember me…I did some wiring for him once or twice back in the day but given what Kyle's like with people." He shrugged. "If he's interested then get him to give me a call, yeah?"

Then with a cheerful nod he stood and started to walk away.

It was a gamble. If he was wrong and she was just an ordinary, insipid girlfriend of one of Moriarty's contacts then he had lost easy access.

But if he was right, then she'd have recognised the name of the dead man's alias he was using - Tommo Spencer, safe cracker extraordinaire - and wouldn't let him leave this bar.

Or…ah. A flicker at the mirror told him what was going to happen the second he stepped out of the bar.

Bypassing the main doors he headed for the toilets and scrambled out the window.


April 7th

He was almost there with the Tinch case. And, by the time Sherlock returned to the pub they were staying at, it was morning and John was cutting up Ava's breakfast in a booth by the corner window.

"We're having sausages!" Ava announced proudly. "And they're posh because they've got green bits in them."

"Herbs," John corrected, and Sherlock inwardly sighed when John kept staring determinedly at the sausages he was cutting up and sounded as if he'd been awake all night. "And you don't need to be so loud," he added.

Ava's brow furrowed. Clearly she wasn't used to John being short with her and she looked up at Sherlock in confusion.

"Go and get some sauce," Sherlock said, nodding in the direction of the bar counter. Ava's eyes lit up and she slid from the table, her confusion with John forgotten.

John's eyes flickered for a moment before his jaw clenched and he continued to cut up the sausage in front of him.

Watching Ava in the mirror, Sherlock drummed his fingers on the spare chair back. "You should go back to bed and sleep this time."

"No."

The waitress was letting Ava pick sachets out of a basket, which probably meant she'd return with a dozen more than was needed. John's hand shook slightly as he continued to cut, the knife scraping across the plate harshly.

"I know who it was."

John's head snapped up to him and Sherlock could see John visibly steel himself.

"But you don't," Sherlock added. "He never told you her name or anything, did he?"

John's eyes slid past Sherlock to Ava, who was chatting to the young waitress.

"Tell me," John said almost inaudibly. "I should know her name."

"It won't help." Sherlock resisted the urge to roll his eyes when Ava was handed a cookie from the cake stand. "It's not her real name."

John dragged his eyes away from Ava. "Not…" Then John paled even further.

"You knew her."

"Excellent deduction."

"Sherlock-"

"Yes." Sherlock slid into the chair he'd been holding onto. "But I never knew her real name."


"You're undercover."

Simone dropped the cigarette out of her mouth. "You what, darling?" she asked, blowing out the smoke in neat patterns.

Sherlock stepped into her light.

"Tommo!" She grinned and he could see the flicker of relief in her eyes. "I've been trying to get hold of you."

Sherlock smiled and looked away. "I'm aware. I've had my rooms overridden by the police."

To give her credit, she could see it was a lost cause to continue, but she seemed wary that he might not be alone.

"Your watch," he said suddenly. "Change it. Or change the style of your jewellery if you cannot fit the technology into a smaller size."

Simone stared down at her wrist in shock. "That was what gave it away?" she asked before she suddenly caught herself.

Sherlock shook his head. "There's no one around to hear."

"Is that meant to be threatening?"

"Not really," Sherlock drawled.

"Who are you?" she asked suddenly. "Not Tommo, you've switched suddenly."

"Unimportant," Sherlock replied, circling her.

"You can't have Kyle," Simone said suddenly, tilting her chin. "He's mine. I've worked too long on him-"

"I don't want him."

"Or his boss. He's my next catch."

"Nor him," Sherlock replied silkily, getting closer.

"Then who?"

Amused, Sherlock leaned in, almost tenderly. "The Boss' Boss."

Simone turned her cheek slightly, their skin almost brushing. "You know who that is, don't you?"

Even in this filthy, secure alley way they couldn't say his name. "Yes."

"You know what he can do?"

"Yes."

Simone swallowed. "Why?"

"Orders."

She bought it.


"So who did she work for?" John asked that evening, as they sat in their room together. Somehow John had managed to go the whole day with Ava without hunting Sherlock down for more information.

"Who do you think?" Sherlock sneered. "Who else would try to get involved?"

John blinked. "Mycroft?"

Sherlock nodded. "It was why he suspected later on. She happened to mention me a few times and once added that I had been able to tell she was undercover from the watch she wore. Of course she never met Mycroft personally, but the gossip circulated among her team and up."

There was an odd expression on John's face as he turned to the window. "I can't decide if that makes it better or worse," he said, wiping at his face.

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to pry even further into that statement. "If it helps at all, considering the dates, it is likely she was the one who raised Moriarty's suspicions also."

Shaking his head, John continued to stare out of the window, fingers curling around the sill. "No. He knew before," John said with utter certainty

"He also knew she was a spy before he came for you."

"I…" John turned back. "I don't understand then, why bother involving me at all?"


Eight months ago

"Enjoying London?"

"Not really," she replied and he could hear he heels clipping on the pavement. "Too fussy for me."

"Is He coming?"

"Maybe," she sighed. "Someone is. Something is happening."

"But no sightings?" Sherlock asked, studying the map in front of him.

"No."

Good. Then he was trusted. Rumours were being spread of Moriarty's travel plans and Sherlock needed to be sure he'd been told the correct ones.

"He'll be in London in two weeks," Sherlock told her.

"How-"

"It doesn't matter."

"Are you coming?"

It was tempting. So tempting. A glimpse of home…

"No."

Whatever he'd find would distract him. It was why he avoided English news reports like the plague.

"But I can instruct you."


"I'm longing for the days of Kyle again. At least I never had to wear dresses like this! It's impossible to hide anything," Simone complained as she answered the phone.

She was far too chatty on the phone.

"He suspects." Sherlock cut her off.

There was a pause.

"But he doesn't know for sure."

Sherlock glared at the ceiling. "You are not on a mission. There is nothing important to be gained-"

"Are you kidding me?" Simone demanded. "Gossip, bitching, all of it. We need it. We'll never get anywhere without it."

No, he needed to talk to her, he needed desperately to extract the information she had gained on three bankers financing Moriarty, he needed more on Moran, he needed…

He needed her eyes and her memory.

And it was too late to get them now.


"They tried to drug me."

"Then don't go back-"

"I have to."

Spare him heroes. Moriarty was supposed to return briefly to Munich and he had an opening.

But only with her information. Something was happening, something he couldn't put his finger on.

Nothing seemed to make sense. Nothing aligned into a plan.

He needed her alive and focused.

"Is there any one you trust?"

Simone sighed. "I…there's a bartender that seems okay."

Good as any he supposed.

"Use him all night."


Not safe. Can't talk now. Will contact you when I can darling xxx


John sat with his head in his hands; his breathing was ragged and almost out of control.

Almost.

Sherlock stood, letting John collect himself.

"I think I-"

"No," Sherlock replied firmly as he leaned back against the dresser, facing John and leaving a long step between them.

"How can you be sure?" John lifted his head looking wrecked.

"Whatever he didn't get from her the first time, he wanted the second. Killing her via you would have served little purpose."

But John wasn't one to see these things logically. Not when he was faced with something like this. John would feel the full weight of this; convince himself there was something he could have done differently, better.

He would convince himself there had been a way out when there hadn't been.

"Moriarty is not the kind of person to lose sleep about poisoning someone regardless of their cooperation," John muttered. "And even if I didn't, I still had a hand in it. I still incapacitated her in some way-"

Hissing with frustration, Sherlock pushed himself off from where he'd been leaning. "You were a tool in this, John. You are in no way responsible-"

"Yes I am!" John stared at him as if he'd gone mad. "I poured whatever it was into her drink. I served it. I don't know how potent it was. What if someone else picked it up? If someone else suffered, it was because I didn't find a way-"

"There was no way!" Sherlock snarled. "There was nothing you could do, because I gave you nothing to work with."

"You would have found a way."

The expression on John's face…it cut at him. There was such shame there that it was unacceptable.

Completely unacceptable.

"I didn't," Sherlock answered, staring at stain in the carpet that suggested at some point someone had burned the carpet with a lit candle. There must have been a scuffle because it was nowhere near a flat surface.

"You didn't kill someone, Sherlock, you jumped off a building."

"I would have. I practically offered," Sherlock hissed.

"What?" John asked, startled.

The candle had been purple. There were still faint traces of wax in the carpet. "What would have happened, John?" He looked up at the pale-faced man on the bed. "If you had been self-sacrificing? Would you have trusted Moriarty to stay away from Ava?"

"N… He wasn't interested in her." John seemed to struggle to follow where Sherlock was going with this train of thought.

"If you were me." Sherlock stared at the picture over the bed. "Ava is to you what you are to me. Would you trust Moriarty not to go after her, just because you were dead?"

Slowly John shook his head.

"Then death was useless because it simply meant there was nothing in Moriarty's way. The same would have been true in your case. And even if he had left Ava alone, what would have happened to her? An orphan, without any close family. I wouldn't have-"

"You'd have protected her," John argued.

"Yes. For you. But I would not have taken her in. You know that."

John looked as if he would like to argue but in the end his shoulders slumped.

"There was nothing you could do, John. And there is nothing I would have had you do differently." Sherlock steeled himself, sure that one day it would get easier to say this when it was just a normal conversation and there weren't the extraordinary circumstances of a hospital room and heart monitor to blur his words. "I would not exchange what you have given me for anything."

John swallowed and nodded slowly. "That helps a little," he said eventually. "But- I have killed before. And every time I pulled the trigger it was because I knew it had to be done, I knew that there was a reason; even if it was one that had been debated miles away by people smarter than me." John traced the pattern on the bedspread as if to distance himself a little. "Did I ever tell you what happened between Moran and I at the end?"

Just the name made Sherlock want to throw something at the wall. Clenching his fists, he willed himself to calm down. "When?"

"In Afghanistan." John seemed to be looking at something else. "He was training me to shoot better. It was amazing…" A rueful smile crossed John's lips. "I was new, green to it all and all of a sudden I was one of Moran's. Everyone knew him, and me because of it. It was…" John took a deep breath. "Instant respect."

Sherlock linked his hands behind his back as he listened, not sure he would trust himself if his hands were free.

"We were…" John swallowed. "We were patrolling. We got caught by some locals…there's a difference then. They're scared, trying to defend themselves. It's hard to know what to do." John frowned. "And that can be more dangerous than going up against trained men. You doubt yourself; you hesitate, even though you're told not to. It escalated; drew attention."

John was lost in the memory now, and Sherlock dared a step forward.

"Moran turned up. We needed to get out of the situation with minimum casualties." John seemed lost for a moment.

"Moran didn't agree?"

"No." John looked up suddenly. "No, he never did. We were in a war; he hated the attempt to make it into something polite and palatable. Sometimes it isn't and sometimes doing that makes it worse. It blurs the lines and you can't keep everything separate. He wanted us out and he didn't care how he did it."

"You still admire him," Sherlock breathed, somewhat appalled at the idea.

John looked away. "He told me to shoot a woman, high up. A few I was with could have managed it on a lucky day, but we'd been working on that." John tapped his fingers on the bedspread. "I aimed, sighted her and…"

"You didn't shoot."

"No," John agreed. "I couldn't. She was scared. She wanted to protect her children. The locals saw me do it and…"

Something odd swelled within Sherlock. It was like a bubble that fizzed in his stomach and closed off his throat momentarily. There was a desperate urge to pull John to him, hold him and murmur that of course John Watson could end a skirmish, just by doing the right thing.

Of course John was that brilliant.

"It was an uneasy truce, as long as we left quickly. Moran was…incandescent with rage."

"You stopped it. He couldn't continue the fight in those circumstances."

John shrugged. "Maybe," he said and Sherlock managed to bite back the urge to snap, "Definitely." Even he could sense that today was not the right time to pick on John's inability to see the obvious.

"He screamed at me when we got back. In front of everyone. Then he told me we were done, that I'd never be able to do what was needed; I was too soft, too moralistic."

John seemed to be trying to curl in on himself. It was painfully obvious how much losing Moran's approval had knocked his confidence all those years ago.

What had suddenly made John tell the story? What was going through his head-

Oh for…

Huffing, Sherlock yanked the desk chair out and twisted it easily to place it opposite John, then sat in it.

"You're an idiot."

John had been watching him suspiciously, and nothing changed in his face. "Why?" he asked without heat.

"You have not swung in the completely opposite direction. You have not been so focused on being capable of doing what needs to be done that you have fallen into Moran's vice." Sherlock stared at John carefully, and then reached out for his knee.

John didn't react and Sherlock let his hand slide away again, disappointed.

"John-"

"Is she dead?" John asked suddenly.

It took no effort to show nothing on his face. "I don't know."

"Don't," John said firmly. "Don't do that. Do not lie to me."

"I do not know," Sherlock replied steadily.

John slowly and deliberately slid his eyes to Sherlock's pocket where his phone rested.

"One call to your brother and you would," John said simply, looking back up. Sherlock let their gazes lock and refused to look away.

"Yes."

"Is that-"

"Yes."

John jolted and looked away. "Did I...did I kill her?"

"It's highly likely," Sherlock replied after a moment. "Moriarty's plan depended on it."

"Plan?" John asked distantly.

"An aborted plan"…for now. "I was meant to look for Simone and the information she had. In my search I would have-"

"Discovered what I'd done," John said, almost inaudibly.

"Discovered what he'd made you do. But it almost certainly would have ended up with you convicted."

There was an unsettling look in John's eye that made Sherlock's heart pound in terror.

"You will not turn yourself in," Sherlock hissed, reaching over now, John's space be damned. "Do you understand me?"

"He'll use it-"

"I don't care," Sherlock snarled. "I will not lose you; I will not let him take this from me. Not again."

"I committed a crime-"

"No, you didn't! You were used to commit a crime; like a knife or a gun. You would not have done anything."

"Sherlock-"

"Don't you dare leave me."

The words shocked them both. John looked so taken aback it would have been funny had the circumstances been different. But there was that churning terror that still nagged at Sherlock; that John might be taken away, stolen and locked away somewhere Sherlock couldn't reach.

John stood suddenly and wrapped an arm around Sherlock's shoulders, dipping down to press a kiss onto the crown of Sherlock's head.

"I'm sorry," John murmured, "I didn't…God, the last thing you need is this conversation."

Despite himself, Sherlock leaned into John, taking in the clean, warm smell that was John Watson.

"I'll find something," Sherlock promised John's clavicle. "I promise, I'll work out what he did, I'll-"

"Shush," John soothed, brushing fingers through his hair. "It'll be okay."

Sherlock traced John's wound and nodded.

He'd make sure of it.