A/N: Oh my god you guys. Thank you all soo much for the reviews! I am so sorry this took so long but it has been a busy week or two for me. (BTW Happy birthday love. The best we've had in a long time.) Please read and review and tell me if you think I've improved any!

He kept glancing over. Sherlock sighed, his forehead rested only slightly against the ice cold window as he stared out at the dimly lit streets. His head hurt, the brief adrenaline surge from the bomb had managed to power him into the car but it seemed his body was giving up on producing the stuff so he let his heavy eyelids slip closed for just a moment.

"What, is it flu or something?"

Sherlock growled under his breath and turned to the inspector, opening his eyes to see what almost looked like a worried expression on the man's face. How strange. "I am fine."

"Bollocks you are look at yourself!"

A hand whipped out and yanked the passenger mirror down and he looked at himself in the flickering lights. His skin was grey, large purple bags under his eyes his tired dull eyes, mouth slack, lips cracked and dry. He hadn't looked this bad since before he got clean. The detective sighed and rubbed a hand through his hair, snapping the mirror shut.

"It's nothing."

"Have you been eating?"

He rolled his eyes. It was the same tone Lestrade always used, when he acted like he was Sherlocks father and Sherlock his unruly child. (He struggled to remember exactly when he had last eaten. Certainly not at the restaurant, no more than a bite at least. But he wasn't going to tell him that.)

"Yes father."

Lestrade let out a long breath and sort of sighed in a defeated way."Well, at least you have John..."

They were both silent as the car sped along and Sherlock pulled his coat tighter around himself. Ah yes, John. (He considered texting him to explain why he wasn't waiting at the flat but it was only just past ten and he didn't think John would be particularly worried.) He thought about his conversation with the doctor in the restaurant bathrooms (Among other things.) and he frowned. Glancing across to the inspector he shuffled a little in his seat, opening his mouth and closing it again, how did he phrase the question?

"Go on. What is it?"

Sherlock blinked. He was getting more perceptive. Disconcerting.

"How would I go about marking John?"

"Marking him. What like a tattoo or..."

"So that strange women do not ask him out on dates."

Lestrade chuckled. "Well you could always stamp property of Sherlock Holmes on his forehead."

Sherlock tilted his head. Somehow he didn't think John would go for that...unless... They pulled up at a set of lights and Lestrade, still chuckling, looked over to the thoughtful detective his smile fading.

"You're not really thinking about that are you, I was joking!"

Sherlock pouted. "Well then what do you suggest!"

Lestrade looked out of the window, back at Sherlock and then out again shaking his head a little as though he was surprised at his own thoughts. "You could always marry him."

"Marry him?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock paused. That was brilliant. "That is brilliant, the rings! Of course! But... two men cannot marry..."

Lestrade frowned at him. Ah, he had said something wrong.

"Yes they can...sort of."

"They can?"

"You seriously didn't know that?"

"No. What do you mean sort of?"

"Technically it's a civil partnership not a marriage."

"Oh. Why can't I marry John?"

"I don't know."

"Does he still have to wear a ring?"

"Well...yes he doesn't have to but yes rings can be part of it."

Sherlock sighed. "I suppose that will do...unless I can convince Mycroft to make gay marriage legal."

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "He can do that?"

"Do not underestimate him."

They pulled up outside an over lit crime scene. It was Nico's house, forensic teams wandering in and out, halogen lamps making it much too bright, cold breath and snow highlighted by the beams. Sherlock slipped out of the door and wrapped his coat around his shoulders, crossing his arms and wandering towards the door, that's when the proverbial black sedan slid up behind Lestrade's car.

The door flew open and John jumped out followed by Becker. He turned at the last second shaking the other mans hand and Becker smiled glancing Sherlocks way and nodding in his direction before jumping back into the car, all in one slick movement. John grinned and then turned back catching sight of his flatmate and licking his lips, crossing the space with a gentle jog. Sherlock grinned; he was so excited that he had found the solution to his problem. He couldn't wait to tell the doctor.

"John! We are getting married!"

The doctor stopped in his tracks and went pink, eyes wide, mouth forming a thin straight line. After a seconds pause he rushed forwards and grabbed Sherlock by the arm dragging him a small way over to the road, away from the nosy technicians.

"And that is how you ask me?"

"You are supposed to ask?"

John shook his head, eyes wide. He paced back and forth for a second before turning back, his eyes softening when he saw the confused expression on Sherlocks face. He stepped towards him and placed his hands on the detectives' biceps making sure to make eye contact, his voice low and careful.

"Yes Sherlock. You are supposed to ask. In fact, I just got back from discussing getting engaged to you with Mycroft."

"You went to see Mycroft?"

"Technically he kidnapped me."

Ah. Of course. His brother would've been keeping tabs on them and seeing John on a date with some strange woman probably aroused his suspicions.

"Oh...John, will you marry me?"

John bit his lip glancing to the side and back. "I really want to but... I had this stupid plan and I was going to get a ring..."

"So you are saying no?"

"No no, of course I am saying yes."

Sherlock frowned. John had put thought into this, it was obvious and he clearly didn't want to hurt whatever feelings he perceived Sherlock would have by saying no or insisting on doing it his way. (And he certainly didn't want to hurt John.)

"Say no."

"No, Sherlock I just said I am saying yes."

"No. Say no. If you say no then you can ask me and I can say yes and get a ring."

John froze rubbing his hands over his face. He looked sad. "John?"

"Fine, no I don't want to marry you."

Ouch. His chest pulsed and he sucked in a breath. Okay so even though he didn't mean it, it fucking hurt. John clenched his teeth and leant forwards grabbing Sherlock and pulling him in close for a almost desperate kiss.

"Sherlock. I am going to get a ring and then we will get engaged okay?"

The detective sighed and held onto him for a second. "When?"

"I'm not going to tell you. It has to be a surprise." He was smiling now and Sherlock pouted. Well that wasn't fair. John looked away from him and waved a hand at Lestrade who wandered over. (He wanted to argue and demand a time and a date but Johns hands were still on him and his lips were still close enough to reach. So he didn't.)

"Did you tell Sherlock to ask me to marry him?"

Lestrade's eyes grew wide and he waved his hands in front of his face. "I did not tell him to do anything. He kept asking me how to mark you so I told him you could get married."

John sighed. "Remember this is Sherlock we are talking about. If you mention something like that to him he is automatically going to assume that's what he needs to do and then he will do it."

Lestrade shrugged.

The house was tiny, walls lined with books and papers. In fact it looked startlingly like his office except here there was a leather chair next to a large antique wooden desk, a surprisingly modern computer, unvarnished wood floors and bare walls. It smelt musty, and Sherlock paused, there was something familiar there... he wove past the crime scene investigators and slipped into the cupboard sized kitchen.

Ah of course. Tea.

He flicked the copper kettle off the stove and turned hands on hips to find John in the doorway. "Well?"

Sherlock grinned and strode past him eyes roaming over every page, every scrap of writing, the jumper on the cracked sofa, and the spot of blood Anderson was about to step on. "Stop!"

Anderson froze and spun on his heel. "What?"

"Blood, there."

The investigator looked down and rolled his eyes. A tiny trial of blood was seeping out from under a thick plush rug, its black colour hiding the rest of the pool. Sherlock beamed and Anderson began lifting it gently off the floor, grumbling under his breath, leaving the detective to barrel past the other people and up the stairs, tearing around the tiny house as his mind sucked in the data like a suffocating fish gasping in the air.

When he managed to reach the downstairs corridor again two strong hands clamped down on his arms and he paused panting, his heart was hammering in his chest and his limbs were numb. His mind however was alive and running violently, thoughts a mile a minute in his head and Sherlock grinned wildly, his eyes alight. John smirked up at him and gripped tighter.

"Okay. Calm down. Take a breath."

Sherlock let out a long breath and tried to calm himself, calm his heart, but John was still wearing that outfit and his hair was still rumpled that way and he had his hands on him and he was smiling and the detective pushed forwards licking his lips and trying to push his way into Johns mouth. The doctor kissed him back for just a minute before resting his forehead against the detectives for a second and pulling away.

"Okay? You calm now?"

He thought about it. His heart rate hadn't slowed but his mind had been blissfully blank for a moment and had resumed at a slower, more ordered speed. (John really really did look stunning. He had loosened his tie; shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbow. Sherlock really wanted to keep kissing him but Johns eyes were flickering back and forth like he was waiting for an answer.)

"Yes."

John grinned and stepped back right into the path of Donovan. He moved away from her and towards Sherlock, frowning. The taller man however began positively beaming because just behind her was Lestrade and he had the stern father-face on. This was going to be priceless.

"Sally Donovan. What a surprise to see you here."

"I'm sorry."

He raised an eyebrow and leant forwards, hands held behind his back in the dim lights of the hallway. Investigators were beginning to turn and stare and he licked his lips. "Pardon?"

She glared, her eyes narrowed and she crossed her arms. Lestrade put a hand to his face and coughed, with purpose. A warning.

"I apologise."

"Whatever for?"

She bared her teeth, and cocked a hip to the side. People were blatantly staring at them now and John was barely hiding a grin. "I'm sorry for insinuating that you and John's relationship is wrong."

"I wouldn't say you just insinuated that."

"I'm sorry for saying that then."

"What about John, surely you should apologise to him too."

She sighed and looked to the doctor who was wearing his best innocent smile, glinting eyes giving away his pleasure. "I'm sorry. I was wrong."

John smiled and looked to Sherlock who was beaming and licking his lips. He was enjoying this. (The doctors stare told him that it was probably enough now, even though he really really wanted to keep going.)

"Apology accepted. Thank you."

She rolled her eyes again and tried to push past the investigators grouped at the door, they were laughing and smiling at each other and she stamped outside leaving Sherlock alone with Lestrade and John.

"That went well."

Lestrade was chuckling but his grin faded when he looked at Sherlock. He looked to John and leant in a little closer to him whispering conspiratorially. "So, you going to tell me what's up with him? He looks like crap."

John sighed. He had better not..."He hasn't been sleeping."

Bastard. Sherlock glared, how dare he betray him like this. Lestrade raised both his eyebrows and opened his mouth, something dawning in his eyes but the detective beat him to it, not even trying to keep the scorn from his voice.

"No, I am not back on the drugs."

Lestrade scoffed and Sherlock sniffed, looking away. "Do you want hear what I have deduced or are we going to stand here talking about meaningless drivel?"

The inspector put his hands on his hip and let out a short breath through his nose; John just sighed and leant against the wall. "Alright, come on."

Sherlock smirked and clapped his hands together striding away safe in knowledge he would be followed and cleared a path for. It was good to always be right. (And he always was. More or less.)

"They came looking for him, probably some sort of warning. That is where he lost the blood, slow drips means less violent wound, probably a cut to the neck or arm. He left that night."

Sherlock gestured to the blood puddle and the rug over it.

"He took his time planning his escape, making sure he was well prepared."

"What? No! He left his phone; his clothes are still in the closet...he left in a hurry."

(Really, he despaired.) "No. Wrong as always."

Lestrade sighed and John frowned stepping next to him to peer around the room. "Seems perfectly accurate to me Sherlock."

The detective pursed his lips. "As always I am reminded who has the brain in this relationship, no. He planned it that way, to make it look like he had left quickly like he would be unprepared, running without a plan. The mob are good at this, they know how panicking people react and as such would be looking in the wrong places." John raised an eyebrow but (Surprisingly.) didn't comment on the brain comment or interrupt his flow. Good boy.

"Here, he covered the blood with the rug, why? Because he needed it to make it look like he was frantic, hiding the evidence poorly would indicate this. Again, phone left behind but look at it, this model must be three years old at least."

"So what?"

Really. Lestrade could be perfectly dense.

"Look at the computer."

John glanced away and back, that dawning admiration growing in his eyes. He smirked.

"It's new. Very new."

"Yes and a man who can update his computer and does update his computer isn't likely to still be using a three year old phone. So, he planted it along with the clothes. They are large, brightly coloured or formal therefore useless to him."

Sherlock whirled past the men and up the stairs to fling the wardrobe wide open, yanking and pulling at the clothes. "Look, these are at least three sizes too big for him."

"How can you know that?"

"Pictures. There was a large picture of the company at their Christmas party in the lobby of his office. He was the only one stood off to the side, alone. The receptionist herself told us he had no friends."

John crossed his arms, and titled his head. A smile Sherlock know only too well spread over his face. (He was reminded of how attractive he found it when John attempted to deduce things, and he thought perhaps John liked it too. The thought only distracted him for a moment or two.)

"He was much too thin to be able to put this much weight on in time. Hence not his usual clothes. Receipt for a new suitcase here under the bed." He dropped to his hands, chest brushing the floor, and reached out pulling the paper from the dark corner and waving it at the inspector. A man with a plastic bag appeared and took it from him, Sherlock thankful he had remembered to wear gloves on his way in.

"So they would think he hadn't even taken one." John was nodding and looking up at the battered brown case on top of the wardrobe. "Brilliant."

Sherlock smirked and ran a hand through his hair."This Nico is just..."

Sherlock glared. What. Nico?

John glanced to him and balked. "I mean you are too, obviously..."

Lestrade laughed and shook his head patting John on the shoulder s they both stared at his fuming partner. Arms crossed Sherlock glared out of the window. How dare he.

"I think it's better if you don't say anything..."

John laughed again and walked forwards, touching the detective on the elbow. "Hey, want to tell us the rest?"

Sherlock sighed and glanced sideways. He couldn't say no, not when John looked like this, not when the thrill of his deductions was still running through his veins. "Fine."

"Thank you."

"They did come looking for him again."

He trotted out of the door and back down the stairs through to the kitchen, still shocked and angry(If John was so impressed by this Nico character why didn't he marry him instead. Stupid Nico.).

"Came through the back door, lock was picked and they searched but they couldn't find him or his hiding place."

"What, you mean he was here when they came back?"

"No. But it's pretty obvious where he is, remember that this man is intelligent. Fiercely intelligent." There was a beat of silence when nobody said anything. Sherlock rolled his eyes. (This was getting ridiculous.)

"It has snowed." Still nothing. John gave him a bewildered look and he groaned rubbing a hand over his face. "He is an architect, an architect working on a mobsters new home..."

Lestrade licked his lips and put his hands on his hips. Yet again. Nothing. Really, how did they ever cope. "It has snowed; therefore building work will have stopped. The site will be empty under the snow melts. Where is the best place to hide John?"

"In plain sight. You really think he is there?"

"Yes. It is the smart thing to do, what I would do."

John nodded and looked up to Lestrade. "There, he has found Nico. Now we are going home and he is going to sleep."

The inspector looked at Sherlock for a long moment and then down at John. "You do realise we don't know where the building site is?"

"Well...it must be in the papers here somewhere." John patted him on the shoulder and grabbed Sherlocks hand, yanking him out of the room and back through the house. (Not that he minded. A fierce headache had developed in the last minute and having finished his deductions his adrenaline wore off very quickly indeed. Unusual and irritating.)

The ride back to Baker Street was quiet that is until John started laughing, looking at Sherlock and laughing again.

"What?"

The detective took a elegant hand away from his face and hit his lover with a intense stare, John giggled weakly and shook his head. "Only with you would I get into a situation where you didn't even know how to propose to someone. Only with you I wouldn't even have been given a choice."

"What do you mean?"

"You jumped out of a car and told me we were getting married."

"You said yes anyway, why does it matter?"

John laughed and shook his head. Sherlock sniffed and turned to the window, hand back over his brow to block the flickering lights from his tired dry eyes. Sometimes he feared for Johns sanity.

As soon as they got in John frogmarched him up the stairs and to their room (Their. Never got old.) stripping him with a patient expression on his face. He pulled Sherlocks coat, sock and shoes off and ordered him to get into bed. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock blinked. "Aren't you getting in?"

"No I'm staying here to make sure you do actually go to sleep."

He pouted. "John. You can do that from the bed."

The doctor finally cracked a smile but hid it quickly. "Fine."

He stripped himself of his shirt, shoes and socks and slipped in the other side wearing just his undershirt and the jeans. Sherlock waited for him to settle for a moment before wrapping himself around the doctor, clinging to his shoulder as he buried his face in his neck. Taking a deep breath Sherlock wriggled about, trying to cover as much of John as possible. The doctors' hand came around to hold his back and he chuckled underneath the weight of his lover.

"Comfortable?"

"You want me to sleep don't you? This helps."

John laughed and Sherlock grinned into his skin, he smelt like the faint aroma of aftershave, clean cotton and his familiar citrus scent, warm arms holding him gently and almost to spite himself his eyes dropped closed and he was asleep in a moment.

He knew it was a dream. He had seen this place many times before, the trees towering above him, stark black against the dark blue of the night sky. Tiny light of the stars flickered above him and Sherlocks tumbled forwards, trotting through the woods, a familiar path and he knew that when he reached the end of this path he would find him.

But he had no choice and the cold dread slicked down his spine and pooled in his stomach slowly closing around his heart and lungs until he was panting, white plumes enfolding in the cold air. He pulled his coat around himself. Nobody would be worried about him; they knew that even at only 6 years old Sherlock was the most terrifying thing in these woods. He licked his frozen lips, the wind freezing his skin, his cheeks were numb and his eyes watered.

But he carried on and now as he turned into the glade the pain in his chest grew and it was so still here, so silent. Not a rustle of leaves in the wind, not the faint call of a nocturnal predator to accompany him as he wandered over to the body. It looked different this time but he couldn't put his finger on why.

His arms were twisted unnaturally, thrown over his hip as his legs splayed out. He was on his side; back facing the small boy, head turned away and Sherlock froze because he knew now why this was different. His stomach plummeted and he wanted to vomit, retching dryly but when he stood back and looked down again it was still him, it was still John lying there.

His beautiful eyes cold, dead, the blood that trickled from his ear was luminous red, as was the large stains on his front, a knife glinted nearby and Sherlock dropped to his knee pulling the body over so John was lying on his back. Eyes staring up at the twinkling sky, reflected back as though he were alive again.

A tear tracked its way down his cheek and he heard a soft, disappointed sigh above him. Sherlock looked up. Mummy was stood hands on hips, her eyes black and shadowed and she shook her head, the faces of his family, of Jeremy or the teachers that had been so impressed with his thirst for knowledge all staring at him. So disappointed, so accusing.

Sherlock tried to stand but his legs wouldn't move and he cried harder, lifting his hands. They glistened and the metallic tang of the blood on his sticky digits filled his nose, he choked, hiccupping and sobbing.

"What happened?"

Sherlock looked down at John and back up. "I don't know, I don't...I don't know."

"Where have you been?"

They were speaking in unison, monotone and blank but Sherlock crouched and whimpered. He couldn't remember a thing. Not a moment and he stared down at the body. Had he done this? Had he killed John?

He sobbed and tried to wipe his hands on the leaves around them shaking his head. "No no no no..."

"Yes. You did it, you killed him, the blood is on your hands."

"Nonononononono."

He wept and scrambled to his feet reaching down and trying to pull the body up but he was too weak and the body too leaden, limbs flopping comically as his blood made weak small hands slippery. He could only pull ineffectively at his blood soaked clothes, his skin was smeared with the stains of it and he retched again, weeping and screaming that he hadn't done it, it wasn't him it wasn't his fault no no no no-

"Sherlock!"

The detective jolted awake and snapped his hands around John's arms, eyes wide. The doctor took a deep breath locking eyes with him and Sherlock closed his mouth. Well this was embarrassing. (He had never told anybody about this particular nightmare and somehow he thought telling John that he had dreamt of his dead body that he had killed him no less, would probably be a bad idea.)

"You okay?"

His heart was pounding his chest but Johns hands were on his cheeks and his neck, smoothing over his skin and he was taking exaggerated long deep breaths like it would help Sherlock. He found himself imitating the man, his own breathing slowing, and wondered vaguely if he had been taught that in combat training.

"Yes."

"You going to talk about it?"

"No.

"You really should. It doesn't help to keep things cooped up Sherlock."

"I don't want to."

"Sher-"

"No."

The doctor sighed and ran a hand through the detective's hair. He glanced sideways at the clock and licked his lips. He had slept for almost three hours. "Can I get up now?"

"No. You don't have to sleep but I want you to rest at least."

Sherlock nodded and wriggle down a little, laying his head back on the pillow as John smoothed his hand over his stomach in soothing circles. "Have you always had nightmares?"

(He had just told him he didn't want to talk about it dammit. But his hand was right there and his breath was across Sherlocks cheekbones and he found he couldn't refuse.) Johns' voice was low and in the dim light of dawn Sherlock could see just the faint outline of his features.

He looked concerned and slightly fearful like Sherlock was going to start screaming at any second. "I did as a child. But not so much since then."

"Oh."

"What about you?"

"Never did have nightmares, not until...until..."

Johns hand had stopped moving and his fingers clenched a little against his skin. Sherlock shuffled sideways and John leant his face against the taller mans shoulder.

"Until you got back from Afghanistan."

"Yes." For some reason Sherlock felt better. (Perhaps the shared experience of these dreams was comforting. Perhaps he was not going mad, perhaps it was normal.)

"Can we get up?"

John sighed and wrapped his hands around his arm, anchoring him to the bed and doctor. "No."

He finally released him mid-morning and Sherlock peeled himself from the bed. He had been what Mrs. Hudson would call 'dozing' for hours and felt oddly more rested for it, his limbs less achy his mind clearer and he rushed about the flat flinging his arms around and dictating what they already knew to John.

Then it hit him, what to do next, he had to visit Jack.

"John! We are going out!"

The doctor sighed and got to his feet retrieving the red sweater from the abyss and pulling it over his head. Sherlock pouted. He wanted that.

"Jo-"

"No."

"You are a cruel man."

The doctor laughed and they rushed downstairs (Well, Sherlock rushed. John just walked after his trial of destruction.) and out into the street. The cabbie raised an eyebrow looking at both of them oddly when he told him the address but relented and John looked to him complacently.

"Where are we going?"

"To Jacks."

"Who is Jack?"

"It's a pub John."

"Oh."

They pulled up outside and the doctor gave him a strange look but got out anyway and stamped his feet on the frozen ground. "Jesus, it's freezing."

He just smirked and rushed past him into the muggy warmth of the pub. Jack wasn't at the bar this time and Sherlock looked around for him, John joining his lover a second later panting slightly and tugging at his clothes. Mere moments inside enough to drench them both in perspiration. (Some not their own.)

"So who are we here to see?"

Suddenly a large hand clapped down on the doctors shoulder and he let out a shocked grunt. Sherlock grinned and Jack circled them, walking behind the bar to pour himself a pint. "Mister Holmes."

"Jack."

John raised an eyebrow but didn't say anything. "This is John, my ..."

"Partner. John Watson."

"Tell me, you were in the army right?"

"Yeah."

"Can spot a fellow soldier a mile off."

John laughed and Jack leant on the bar downing his drink in almost on gulp. "So what do two upstanding men like yourselves need from a old father?"

"Just wondering if you knew where the site of Noah's new house is."

Jack licked his lips glancing around, his cheerful expression deepened somewhat and he leant very close to Sherlocks face. "You don't want to mess with them Sherlock. Noah is a powerful guy."

"I'm not interested in messing with anybody."

Jacks snorted but stepped back "Two beers is it?"

He poured two pints and slipped them across the bar. "I'll just get you a receipt."

He proceeded to wander down the bar and ignore them. John gripped his drink and frowned. "What?"

"Sh."

Jack retuned a mere minute later and slipped a receipt across the bar, Sherlock slipping him three twenties in return. "Night, father."

"Bless you gentlemen."

He was careful to hold onto the receipt until they were safely back in the taxi and on their way back to Baker Street. It was an address out of town, and so he leant forwards tapping the driver on the shoulder.

"Actually I want to go here."

He handed the receipt over and the driver shrugged. "Alright mate."

John sighed and rubbed a hand over his face, pulling his wallet open. "Hope you brought cash."

The site was empty when they arrived, a thick blanket of snow covering tarpaulin that poked through in flashes of black and blue. He held up a hand and asked the cabbie to wait, this wouldn't take long. The bare framework of the house was standing, the skeleton of what was to come and Sherlock sniffed in the bitterly cold air as they slipped out of the door. It helped to waken his mind somewhat and he stepped aside to let John crunch onto the frozen path.

Somewhere in the distance were several porta-cabins, dotted and stacked by a large clump of trees, the faint figure of a man in a long dark coat slipped out of the door and down the wooden steps, making its way across the site towards the two men. John patted him on the arm and Sherlock nodded his head instantly putting on a fake smile.

"Hello."

The man smiled. (Or didn't, it was a strange expression Sherlock really didn't understand.)

"Gentlemen. How can I help you?"

"Um...we were just wondering if...well...um...we saw this house from the motorway and we thought...well." He fumbled with his hands, adopting a flustered embarrassed tone. John ducked his head as if too scared or too shy to look up. He was very good at it. Remarkable. (Not to mention oddly...endearing.)

"It just looked so bally lovely, I mean. Who...who is...what is..."

"Are you asking me who designed this building?"

"Oh yes, I would love if you could tell us."

"I am sorry but I don't know."

He spoke in a strange soft tone, and held his hands together in front of himself like a matronly teacher, tilting his head with that strange half smile. He also was blatantly lying.

"Um, oh really? Oh well. I'm sorry for the trouble."

"No no, no trouble at all."

Sherlock nodded his head and put a hand on Johns shoulder, an almost sad expression on his face and together they began to turn away. The man spoke again "If you are interested in houses of this style I am sure these architects would be interested in helping you out."

He slipped a hand into his breast pocket and passed a note over to the detective just as a gunshot rang out. John instantly dropped to his knees, but Sherlock wasn't so lucky and pain exploded in his arm. The man had also dropped instantly. (Clearly used to gunshot, he didn't even flinch. He did however act surprised, and he was very good at it...wait what did that mean?)

Sherlock let out an astonished grunt and slipped on the ice, landing flat on his back. John leant over him and Sherlock tried to force him to behave as he had before, no to give the game away.

"Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god. Are you okay Brian?"

Well. He was damn impressive; the glint in his eyes meaning that despite his worry John didn't think whatever had happened was life threatening. (He wondered when such discussion had ceased to become verbal. His mind instantly recalled the night of the bomb in the swimming pool. Two minds in perfect synch for the first time.)

"Ah yes, just slipped I think."

John hulked weakly and helped him to his feet, careful to hide the torn patch of his coat and the dark stain now blooming in the fabric. (He was glad he hadn't worn his great coat, having set fire to the cuffs Mrs. Hudson had taken it to a friend of hers for repair. He doubted that even a friend of their inimitable landlady could repair this.)

"Oh ohh my back."

"Oh dear. We should be off. "

The man was watching all this with a odd expression on his face, slightly more surprised than before but still not losing that strange half smile. It was unsettling.

"Good...goodbye sir." Sherlock waved a hand weakly and put the other to his back as if that was why he was in pain as they half limped their way back to the cab.

Sitting low in the seat he felt drained but he smirked and John leant over him wincing at his arm and pulling bandages from seemingly nowhere to tie a bandage to his arm. "There that should hold it until we can get back."

He felt more drained than ever, half sitting half lying here in the deep seats of the cab, leant against his lover and with a weak chuckle he patted the doctor down with his one remaining arm.

"What are you doing?"

"Trying to find where you could've kept that."

John laughed. "Yes well, being around you calls for some preparation."

Sherlock laughed quietly too, ignoring the tendrils of pain that flickered up and down his arm.

Once back at the flat John helped him ease out of the car and the world tipped to the side for a moment, his knees wobbling as he stepped out. John held him tightly and together they hobbled into the hallway and up the stairs. He was pushed down onto the sofa and the coat was slipped gently off his shoulder, his shirt was ruined and blood had seeped into most of the arm and the fabric behind. He pouted and John sighed in response, unbuttoning the expensive fabric and throwing it over to the char.

"I liked that shirt."

The doctor shook his head. "Well I am very sorry."

He surveyed the detective's bare chest and clicked on a lamp he had dragged over, it was on a high stand and had several springs to allow the exact positioning he desired. John let out breath through his teeth and squirted some clear liquid into the wound, dabbing at it with cotton wool, it stung and Sherlocks lips twitched.

(He really really liked that shirt and was in pain and he could feel petulant anger bubbling under his skin. Irritation but he fought it back. For once.)

"Looks like a graze to me; it's quite deep I might need to stitch it up."

Sherlock just nodded whatever John wanted. "A bullet."

"Yes most likely hunters in those woods. They know it's illegal but who is going to check?"

Sherlock just nodded vaguely. Hunters. Yes...unless of course it wasn't hunters and AH!

He turned his head sharply and John shrugged sympathetically. "Sorry." Butcher. Two neat stitches later and he was hunched over on the sofa, eyes drooping as he leant his head against the doctors stomach, a hand sliding into the hair at the base of his neck.

"So, did you get anything from that? Besides the flesh wound."

Sherlock sighed and blinked heavily. "I think I know where Nico is."

"Oh?"

"You are telling me you didn't see it?"

"No how could I? I was staring at the floor." The doctor sounded irritated but it was half-hearted and Sherlock smirked.

"Behind the porta-cabins, there was a single trial of footprints heading into the forest."

"How could you see that?"

"I was looking for them. We should go and have a look in those woods."

"Tomorrow."

Sherlock sighed. He wouldn't have been able to move if he wanted to.

An hour later and he was lain backwards on the sofa, John cradled into his side. He was wearing a fresh white shirt and the doctor shuffled slightly, reaching up above his own head to turn the page of Sherlocks book (A large encyclopaedia of the trees of America. The spruce.) so he wouldn't have to remove the arm that curled around him, or the hand that the doctor was tracing his fingers over.

He held Sherlocks hand up gently following the line of his palm with a fingertip, his other hand wrapped around the back, fingers interlinked with his. It was...nice and Sherlock let his head drop back against the arm, wincing at his stiff limbs and the dry press in his skull that constantly reminded him of his sleep deprivation. But he felt calm, he felt comfortable.

Perhaps now if he went to bed he would be able to sleep without fear.

Suddenly the doctor's phone rang and he sighed pressing a soft kiss to his lovers palm before rolling off the sofa and trotting across the room. He picked up the call. (Bastard. He should've merely silenced the irritation and returned to the sofa.) Harry, judging by his stance.

"Oh hello."

Sherlock sighed and sat up, rubbing his hands over his face before getting shakily to his feet. He felt light headed and took a step. A mistake it seemed because everything went black and in the blink of his eye he was laid crumpled on the floor and John was leant over him, phone lying forgotten on the floor.

"Hey hey, Sherlock come on. Wake up."

"John..."

"Jesus. This sleep thing is worse than I thought. Come on."

He was pulled up onto Johns' shoulders and barely helped at all as he was dragged up the stairs to the bedroom, John stripping him of his trousers and shirt before pushing him into the bed, quilt tugged up and tucked under his chin.

"I will be right back oaky? Just...just try and sleep I promise I will be here when you wake up."

Sherlock didn't have the energy to nod so he simply let his leaden eyes slide shut.

That music sounded familiar, he couldn't place it and the lights here were blinding. He blinked rapidly to try and clear his vision and suddenly he knew exactly where he was. He glanced to the pews; Mummy and Harry were side by side, matching grins on their faces, his family behind them.

Perhaps this was not to be a bad dream after all. The music grew even louder now and Sherlock turned back to the altar, Mycroft's smug grin only slightly less smug now, Lestrade beside him chuckling under his breath, a smile broke out on his face and the sound of the doors behind him made the detective turn back, something catching his eyes through the brightly coloured glass of the window.

He quickly stepped out of sight but Sherlock knew that face, those twinkling eyes and he froze but John was walking down the aisle towards him, beaming from ear to ear and it was too late to say anything, he couldn't say anything before the door to his left burst open and there was the crack of gunshot and John was crumpling to the floor, red spewing from his stomach as he gasped for breath, barely calling out in pain.

Sherlock rushed towards him, dropping to his knees to pull the doctors limp body up onto his chest but there were footsteps behind him and he turned and he was struck across the back of the head, the world going black.

He was lying down, it was warm and for a moment he just let himself sink into the soft surface. He could sense something moving to his right and it crept closer to him, a creak of a floorboard and he leapt up grabbing the figure and rolling over so he was straddling them, knife pulled from under his pillow (A necessary precaution.) and held to the neck of his attacker.

"What the hell are you doing?"

John blinked up at him, very much alive and very very angry. Sherlock took the knife away but didn't move off his lover's hips, instead sitting back on his thighs."You shouldn't sneak up on me."

"I didn't sneak up on you! I was checking to see if you were alright."

"I am fine."

"Really? Because you were...whimpering."

Sherlock screwed up his face and looked away from the softly lit eyes of the man below him. He wriggled a little, the cold air from the windows was making the hair on the back of his neck stand on end, his hips moved against the doctors and hands gripped his thighs stopping him.

For a moment.

"Stop that."

"This isn't a dream."(It didn't hurt to be sure. After all, any minute a gunman or bomber or fire or anything could explode into the close air here.)

"No it isn't. Stop avoiding this discussion."

Sherlock rolled his hips again, harder this time and John actually bit down on his lip, fingers digging into the flesh of Sherlocks legs. He grinned running a hand through his hair, his skin smelt of dried sweat, of fear. He frowned for a second before looking back down. The doctor was patient with him, licking his lips and rubbing tiny circles in the fabric of his pants.

"I said stop it. You keep on like that and you can't stay there, I will drop you to the floor."

Sherlock grinned raising an eyebrow...that sounded fun. "And you can stop making that face, I don't mean in the fun way, I mean in the 'I could seriously hurt you' way."

Well, that was no fun. He didn't roll his hips this time; he put his hands on John's chest instead, feeling the rhythmic beat of his heart and the heat of his skin. He leant down and pressed a soft kiss to his lips, it was slightly warmer here and he paused in the heat coming from his lovers body, kisses peppering his jaw and neck.

"Only with you can checking to see if my partner is awake ends with him trying to kill me."

"I'm not the one trying to kill you."

There was a long silence and the doctor put a hand on his chest, pushing him back up so he was sitting straight. "What?"

(Oh shit. Well, no time like the present.) "Someone is trying to kill us?"

He was suddenly launched sideways on to the bed and John was on his feet, pacing back and forth frantically, fingers dug into his hair.

"John?"

The doctor turned and stared at him, eyes wide. He looked furious. "WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY ANYTHING!"

"I didn't want to worry you." (Also, ouch. He was going to mention he didn't need to shout but the doctor was tugging at his hair and shaking his head. Perhaps another time.)

"Didn't want to-"

John let out a guttural groan and flung himself on the bed. Sherlock crawled over to him and arranged himself next to the doctor, bare feet just touching his lovers, thigh a hairs breadth away.

"Who?"

He sighed and John looked at him, worry in his eyes. God dammit this is what he was trying to avoid.

"I'm not sure. But..." He froze. Of course! That was what had struck him back at the building site.

"But?"

"The mob John. The mob is trying to kill us."