Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive, stayin' alive

Ah, ha, ha, ha, stayin' alive

Of all the possible outcomes of their encounter with Moriarty, John could honestly say that this had never crossed his mind. He pondered what might have happened had Moriarty not received that phone call for days after they escaped. Would Sherlock had shot the bomb and ripped everything apart? Would Moriarty had given in and let them go? Would they have been killed some other way? There was no way of knowing, so they both tried to move on with their lives.

"We solve crimes, I blog about it and he forgets his pants."

And then came The Woman, wrecking her way into their lives, breaking down Sherlock's defences, leaving him exposed.

And who was there to pick up the pieces? Good old Doctor Watson.

It all started after their visit to Buckingham Palace and the subsequent venture into Belgravia. If John thought he was used to Sherlock's odd behaviour he was about to see a whole new side of him; from his refusal to leave the flat, to going to Buckingham Palace only wearing a sheet, to asking John to punch him in the face.

"Punch you?"

"Yes. Punch me, in the face. Didn't you hear me?"

"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext."

And even though John complied- didn't he always? - he tried his hardest not to hurt Sherlock. As Miss Adler so kindly pointed out he avoided his nose and teeth, and ended up hurting himself more than Sherlock in the process.

But there was only so much John could protect him from.

Their plan to retrieve the photographs had been going well enough until the CIA had decided to intervene and John found himself staring down the barrel of a gun again. Luckily for him, Sherlock still possessed his full faculties and had been able to get them out of that situation alive.

If only that had been the end of it.

Irene Adler was more cunning than they had thought, and though John had felt uneasy leaving Sherlock with her to check the back door he didn't think he would come back to see his flatmate drugged on the floor, and Irene Adler prepared to make her escape.

"Jesus. What are you doing?"

"He'll sleep for a few hours. Make sure he doesn't choke on his own vomit, it makes for a very unattractive corpse."

"What's this? What have you given him? Sherlock!"

"He'll be fine. I've used it on loads of my friends."

"Sherlock, can you hear me?"

Luckily Scotland Yard was already outside and ready to deal with what had happened in the house, while John and Lestrade managed to get a mostly unresponsive Sherlock back to Baker Street and into bed to sleep it off.

John, his date forgone and forgotten, stayed at home that night to look after Sherlock who spent most of the time sleeping. That is until he decided to wake up, drag himself out of bed and start asking questions about The Woman.

"What woman?"

"The woman. The woman, woman!"

"Oh, Irene Adler? She got away, no one saw her. She wasn't here, Sherlock. What are you…? What? No, no, no, no. Back to bed. You'll be fine in the morning. Just sleep."

"Of course I'll be fine. I am fine. I'm absolutely fine."

"Yes, you're great. Now I'll be next door if you need me."

"Why would I need you"?

"No reason at all."

Why would he need him? Sherlock thought he didn't need anyone, but if it wasn't for John he would have probably died countless times already. His recklessness and his self-destructive behaviour were more than proof that he needed someone with him, someone to keep an eye on him, someone to protect him. His cases and subsequent confrontations with criminals were enough danger as it was, but Sherlock Holmes was more a danger to himself than anyone could ever be. His danger nights were some of the most restless nights John had ever been through.

"Looks like he's clean. We've tried all the usual places. Are you sure tonight's a danger night?"

"No, but then I never am. You have to stay with him, John."

And stay he did. Cancelling yet another date and losing yet another girlfriend. But Sherlock was more important. So John waited, quietly reading his book, until Sherlock got home and immediately deduced that the flat had been searched for drugs. But John couldn't bring himself to feel guilty for invading his flatmate's privacy. He knew what Sherlock was like. He knew how much he hated sentiment and emotions and feelings, things with which he was clearly struggling now, and John didn't want him to turn to the drugs, not after all the effort he had put into staying clean. The cigarette had been a blow to his abstinence but it was something they could deal with more easily.

But all those feelings came rushing back with Irene Adler.

"He's writing sad music; doesn't eat, barely talks, only to correct the television. I'd say he was heartbroken but, er, well, he's Sherlock. He does all that anyway."

"Hello, Doctor Watson."

"Tell him you're alive."

"He'd come after me."

"I'll come after you if you don't."

And he truly would. He'd done more than that longer ago to protect Sherlock, and now he wouldn't hesitate to do whatever had to be done to make sure Sherlock was safe. But in the end it turned out that neither of them needed to tell Sherlock anything because he was right there.

Sherlock doesn't follow me everywhere.

It was almost impossible to talk to Sherlock after that. John came home to find a worrying note on the door, an injured landlady and an American tied to a chair. The rest of the evening had been spent looking after Mrs Hudson and giving Lestrade questionable witness reports. When they finally returned to 221B Baker Street Sherlock was quiet- eerily so- and John had tried to coax something out of him, anything, to try to ascertain his friend's state of mind.

"So, she's alive then. How are we feeling about that?"

"Happy New Year, John."

"Do you think you'll be seeing her again"?

But this conversation had been nothing compared to the one John had with Sherlock after discussing with Mycroft what exactly they should tell him about Irene. She was dead, and John was afraid of what it would do to Sherlock.

The promise of love. The pain of loss. The joy of redemption.

The last time she had, supposedly, died Sherlock had nearly relapsed, what exactly would happen this time? Clearly Mycroft thought the same thing, having been the one to see what Sherlock was like at the morgue, and together they decided to tell Sherlock that Irene was in America.

But did Sherlock really believe him?

John wasn't a convincing liar at the best of times, but Sherlock was the most observant person he knew, surely he would see right through John's deception. He sounded disbelieving at first but seemed to whether accept the facts or forego questioning John further. Either way, John was grateful.

But then guilt started working away at him. What exactly was he trying to accomplish? Sherlock would find out the truth sooner or later, he was bound to, and when he did wouldn't it be so much worse to know that his best friend had lied to him, even if it was for his own protection?

"Listen, actually…"

"Oh, but I will have the camera phone, though."

Reluctantly he agreed and gave Sherlock the camera phone which he promptly put away in his pocket.

If she'd left him he would have kept it. People do; sentiment.

John wondered what giving in to sentiment would lead Sherlock to next time.