The room glowed orange beyond John's eyelids, bright sunlight pouring through the open curtains. He stretched (and hissed, because the stretching hurt) and blinked, trying to clear his head of a strange and half-remember dream.

There was someone else's weight in his bed, and he turned slowly, his eye (he wasn't going to get the left one to open more than a crack, it seemed) struggling to focus.

Sherlock was lying there beside him, his shirtsleeves pushed up and his legs daintily crossed. He had a book in his hands- one of John's old medical books, the pages shiny with yellow highlighter ink- and was reading quickly, his eyes flitting down the page.

John's heart thrummed dangerously. Not a dream. This was Sherlock, all right, same impossible cheekbones, same slim fingers, same uneasy elegance, like a snake poised to strike at any time. He had cut his hair (it suited him) and he'd lost weight (that suited him less, and made his veins protrude a little too much in his arms). But otherwise, it was as if he'd stepped out of John's memories and landed neatly, with an annoyed frown, in John's bed.

"Do you need to eat?" Sherlock asked without looking up. He turned a page.

If John had ever had a voice (and suddenly he wasn't sure of anything at all, not even that), he'd lost it. The only noise that left him was a strangled sort of gasp.

Sherlock's eyes lifted skyward for only a second, and then he set the book down and slipped out of bed, straightening his shirt with one smooth motion. "Wait here. I'll bring you something."

"Don't!" There was his voice, after all. John sat straight up and clutched Sherlock's arm, his stomach doing flips. "Don't leave me."

For a drawn-out moment, Sherlock only looked at John's face, his eyes appraising. Then he gave a small nod and sat back down slowly, pushing the book to the floor. John didn't let go of his arm but instead laid his face against it, feeling the beat of Sherlock's heart against his cheek. His pulse. The same pulse he'd tried to find years ago, the one that wasn't there. He realized he was crying only when Sherlock's other hand drifted to his face and neatly wiped the tears from his undamaged cheek. "I didn't think this would affect you so strongly," Sherlock whispered, letting his hand fall to John's hair. "Your physical state certainly isn't helping."

"It's not that bad," John sighed into Sherlock's warm skin, running his finger along Sherlock's wrist. It could be so much worse, he thought. It has been so much worse.

Sherlock snorted. "Regardless, will you be able to stay lucid enough for me to explain?"

"Mm." John shifted a little, pulling Sherlock closer to him. It wasn't the sort of thing he would have done before…but this wasn't before, this was now and John didn't care if it made the bastard uncomfortable or not, he wasn't letting go of him.

But if Sherlock was uncomfortable, he didn't seem it. He spoke slowly, softly, his voice more gentle than John had ever heard it. "Three assassins," he whispered. "Three victims. Moriarty at the center of it. I couldn't tell you, because you were one of them. The last one." He began to smooth John's hair. "I found the first assassin very easily. You see, I'd seen him before. On Baker Street. So Mrs. Hudson was safe almost immediately. The second assassin took a little more work. I tracked him for months; found him in Paris. He was hiding out with his mistress, who- like a fool- protected his secret quite cunningly. When I found him, he was tied up with a note in French around his neck. Translated, roughly, it said 'The man is married, and now I'm free of him. I hope you kill him slowly'." There was smile in Sherlock's voice at that, but it drifted away as he went on: "That was Lestrade's assassin. Mycroft's people took him, God knows where, and I knew Lestrade was safe. But there was still one. One more gunsman, and I didn't have a single lead on him."

"You knew you'd find him eventually," John mumbled.

"Of course. It was a matter of time; no one can hide forever." Sherlock shifted, ran his hand through his own hair, dropped it back to John's. "I went to India and spoke with Irene-"

John sat up, his one eye going wide. "Irene? The woman?"

There was an odd glint in Sherlock's eyes. "Yes, the woman."

"Right." John ran his hand down his face. "Because she's alive, as well."

"Ah, I'd forgotten…" Sherlock smiled and waved a dismissive hand. "Yes, she's quite well. Very alive. I wound up staying in India for some time. Her help was indispensible."

"Huh." John crossed his arms, aware that he looked fussy but not caring. "I've noticed. Seems like she did you a world of good, Irene did."

"Because Seb has done so much good for you." Sherlock fixed John with a daring look. "I spent my time in India interviewing Irene and doing research, not getting beat to a pulp by a psychotic murderer for the sheer pleasure of it."

"Piss off."

"If you'd like me to leave, I will."

John's hand tightened around Sherlock's wrist involuntarily, and he gave his head a small shake. Clearing his throat, Sherlock went on, "I interviewed Irene at length about her involvement with Moriarty. It took some work. She can be…tiresome. But at last I stumbled upon what seemed like a helpful tidbit: Moriarty had a lover. Irene didn't know his full name and she'd never seen him, but she knew that he often referred to him as 'Sebby'."

"No." John's whole body had gone rigid. "If you're implying-"

Sherlock hissed: "I don't imply, John, I deduce. Don't interrupt, now. Listen." His eyes were more intense then John had ever seen them. "Irene talked and I suspected, from things that Moriarty had said to her, that this 'Sebby' kept a flat somewhere in London. It wasn't much to be going on, but it was enough to make me come back. That was eight months ago. I did as much as I could- the homeless network was useless, Mycroft's people were useless, nothing of Moriarty's personal records revealed anything…one day I found myself on Baker Street and glanced up at our- at the flat and saw it was clearly unused. Deciding it was quite safe to do so, I broke in and waited for Mrs. Hudson."

"You could've given her a heart attack!"

"She was fine." Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, and there was a touch of humor in his voice when he said, "She didn't even faint."

John grimaced, but there was a hint of a smile at the corners of his lips. Sherlock went on: "I asked her if she'd heard from you, and I can see you're ashamed by her response. Not even an email in the last two years, John. Really." John opened his mouth, but Sherlock raised a hand and said: "This is where the story gets interesting. You won't want to interrupt now." He settled back against the headboard and steepled his fingers under his chin. "She didn't know your exact address- couldn't even call on you, poor Mrs. Hudson- but she had a vague idea of your whereabouts, and I thought it might be worthwhile to check on you. If you were already dead, for example, then I was tailing your would-be assassin for no real reason."

"Right," John laughed, "I'm sure that's why you wanted to check on me." Comprehension dawned across his face. "Oh. That's the day…the day I saw you."

Sherlock nodded. "I walked the neighborhood for awhile, not wanting to run into you but hoping I'd catch sight of you all the same. I didn't have any luck. But you did. And I knew it, that very night."

"How?"

"Because," Sherlock said, smiling smugly, "someone tried to kill me." To John's astonished face, he said, "I had been in London for nearly five months at that point, and hadn't been so much as mugged. Then I decide to go to your neighborhood for a little jaunt and not five hours later someone sneaks up on me and puts a knife to my throat." He waggled a finger, clearly pleased. "Someone, it seemed, was keeping an eye on John Watson. Or were they?" Now he was positively beaming. "No, I decided, that wasn't it at all. If the assassin was lurking about near your flat, waiting for me to turn up, why did he wait five hours and then send an amateur to try and finish me off? Clearly, the man was in no position to come after me himself. And even more clearly, someone else had seen me in your neighborhood. Someone who didn't think to track me, maybe because he didn't genuinely believe it could have been me. So. Who saw me? The most obvious answer was: you." Sherlock grinned a Chesire cat grin. "Now, that was interesting- namely because, if it was you that had seen me…how did the information get back to our friend 'Sebby'? I considered who you might talk to in such a situation. Obviously not Mycroft, or he would have mentioned it. Not Lestrade, because any professional inquiries would have been intercepted by me. Not Molly, not Stamford. Not Mrs. Hudson. Not poor, sodden Harry. So, who? A new friend, then. Ah." Sherlock leaned forward, his eyes shining with something that looked uncomfortably like joy. "The fun part. I searched your blog, but you hadn't updated and no one new was commenting. Broke into your therapist's only to discover you stopped going after she'd recommended you start attending veteran's events. Hmm. Coincidence? No."

"You broke into…" John let out a slow breath. "Okay. So, then what?"

"I was going to go through pages of registry and documentation, but on a whim I followed you one night when you went to the pub instead."

John leaned back, almost as if he could put some distance between himself and this new information. Sherlock noted his reaction, but he was too caught up in it now to stop: "I followed you to the pub, and I followed you back to his flat, and I followed you home. I noticed a routine and hacked the CCTV outside the pub one night while I waited outside your new friend's flat. Are you aware of his personnel?"

"Am I…" John shook his head slowly, exhaustion creeping back in. "His personnel? Of what sort? I know he has a cleaning lady."

Sherlock gave another wide grin. "Indeed. As well as several paid thugs and at least four…bodyguards, for lack of a better term. They never leave the flat. Well, almost never."

"I think I'd have noticed them by now, Sherlock," John sighed.

"Sure, if 'Sebby' was an idiot." Sherlock ran his thumb along his bottom lip, his eyes shifting focus. "Four guards, for one small flat, but the only time they leave is ten minutes before our man shows up with one John Watson. Another pattern. I watched several times to be sure of it, and yes: without fail, the guards would leave the flat and position themselves throughout the block, and ten minutes later you and your new friend would leave the pub and hop a cab. He was clearly hiding this from you, and I wanted to know why. So the next time, I prepared myself, and when the guards were dismissed, I snuck in."

John sucked in a breath. "You…you broke into Seb's flat?"

"Of course." Sherlock began to tap his fingers on the mattress. "I had to see, didn't I? I checked his mail first. Nothing out of the ordinary, but the name was important. Sebastian Moran. I hope it doesn't ruin the story if I jump ahead and tell you I researched him once I got back to the manor."

"You've been staying with Mycroft?" Of all the things Sherlock had said this afternoon, this made the least sense.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Not with any pleasure, I assure you. This has all been very exciting but it will be quite worth seeing the end of it to have our flat back." John blinked at that, but Sherlock went on without addressing it. "Now, there was a certain room in Sebastian's house that I found quite enlightening. How many bedrooms would you say are in that flat?"

"Two. I've seen the other, if that's what you're getting at," John gritted.

"You…" Sherlock, to his credit, collected himself quickly. "Of course. You wouldn't have known what to make of the items in the bureau, necessarily, and by that time I assume you and Sebastian were already…intimate." There was an obvious note of distaste in his voice. "But you saw the suits?"

John nodded, and Sherlock shook his head. "I wonder, sometimes, if ordinary people willfully miss all the important things or if they really, truly are that stupid."

"The suits, Sherlock."

"The suits," Sherlock yawned, "belonged to Moriarty. I recognized one of them as being the exquisite little Westwood piece he was wearing when he tried to kill us at the pool."

The suit.

Seb's cool voice, so soft and so angry: "He broke something that was mine."

"Oh my God."