It was a delicious luxury, waking up in a king-sized bed, the sun streaming through the sheer curtains adding to the warmth of Sherlock's body next to his. It would have been perfect if Sherlock had still been asleep, or just waking up too, but John didn't care.

It was amazing all the same, and he felt like he was cheating somehow – not guiltily, but with a satisfied thrum of pleasure.

"Ah, he is alive," a warm baritone said from somewhere above him. John grinned sleepily, nosing the hip next to him, feeling a hand drop to card through his hair.

He pressed a kiss against Sherlock's skin, the memory of chocolate on his lips making him smile.

"Good morning to you, too," he murmured, voice still thick with sleep and half lost in skin and the light, downy duvet. He took a moment to appreciate the fact that Sherlock was at least still naked, closing his eyes and inhaling his partner's familiar scent.

"You'd better be booking us tickets for the Eiffel Tower," John said, propping himself on his forearms. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at him, peering over the top of his phone.

"Why would I be doing that?" he drawled.

"Because," John said, pinching Sherlock's hip lightly, earning an equally light scowl, "that's what we're doing today."

"When did you become the arbiter of our plans?" Sherlock asked.

"When I decided we were actually taking this holiday. I've never been and I want to go."

"It's not that interesting," Sherlock said.

"Bollocks, you don't know that, because you've never been either."

"'Course I have," Sherlock sniffed, but refused to meet John's eyes.

"You? Not a chance."

"If there hasn't been a chance until now, why do you think there would be one today?" Sherlock asked, grey eyes glinting.

"Because you love me madly and would do anything for me."

"Is that so?"

"It is. I've accumulated a lot of evidence, you know."

"Well," Sherlock sighed, and John grinned at the mock defeat in his partner's voice, "far be it for me to deny you the opportunity to collect more. Let's have Mycroft provide us with some tickets, shall we?"

John wondered what Mycroft thought of the charges they were accruing, but supposed it was a small price to pay if it was getting him what he wanted. Against all odds, Sherlock was actually beginning to relax and have an almost-proper holiday.

"What were you doing?" John asked. "Before I woke up."

"Research," Sherlock murmured, distracted by the purchase. John cocked an eyebrow.

"So, while I was sleeping in bed next to you, you were looking up another man online?"

"How do you know I was looking up another man?" Sherlock replied, the cool hint in his voice completely feigned.

"You were researching Alexandre. Admit it."

"I see no reason to deny it."

"So you were checking out other men online."

"It was one man, John," Sherlock sighed. "And I wasn't checking him out. I was checking into his background."

"I'm not exactly an expert, but I think he was a decent looking bloke. Tall, too."

"And encumbered by an infant. Not to mention a wife. Besides, not my type."

"Didn't know you had a type."

"Of course I do," Sherlock sniffed. "You."

"Short, blond, former military?"

"No. You," his partner said firmly. John grinned, pushing himself up to rest on the generous pile of pillows.

"Good thing you're my type," he replied.

"Yes, that worked out rather well, didn't it?" Sherlock said, lips quirking. "There, it's done."

"And what did you find out about our favourite French author while I was asleep?"

"He's your favourite French author – so maybe I'm the one who should be worried. And he's tall, as you said, and dark haired. That reminds me of someone."

"He's not a consulting detective though."

"Is that a requirement?"

"He's got to be the only consulting detective in the world."

"Lucky for me then. Did you know his parents were in their forties when he was born?"

John took a second to switch mental tracks.

"Shocking," he replied. "That never happens. He's clearly the most interesting man in the world."

"Third," Sherlock corrected.

"What?" John asked. "Who's the second?"

"You are."

"Me? Who's the first?"

"I am. Obviously," Sherlock sniffed.

"You're a giant git," John said, rolling his eyes.

"You say that, but yet you're still here."

"Nowhere I'd rather be."

"London?"

"Fine," John conceded. "No one I'd rather be with."

"With whom I'd rather be."

John groaned, slouching down in the pillows.

"It's too early for proper grammar. What else did you find out?"

"The usual," Sherlock sighed. "Born and raised here, educated here, travels frequently but not excessively – that would largely be book promotions I suppose – married two years ago, wife is a publicist, he makes a decent living off his writing, six month old daughter, whom we met, both parents deceased now, father four years ago, mother almost two, no bad habits that would cause him any financial trouble, fairly active social life, even with the baby."

"It's almost as if he were a normal person," John said in mock surprise. "One whose name was in the right place at the right time for Mycroft to take advantage of it."

"You're still stuck on that ridiculous theory," Sherlock said with a scowl, putting his phone aside.

"More so now," John said. Sherlock huffed, slouching down to make himself comfortable, bundling the duvet under crossed arms. John leaned over, brushing his lips over his partner's.

"You need a shave," Sherlock murmured and John grinned, snaking a hand under the comforter to rest lightly on Sherlock's hip, thumb brushing over soft skin.

"I could do that now," he agreed. "Or… I could wait." He smiled again at the way Sherlock's pupils dilated slightly, the tip of his tongue darting once, impatiently, over his bottom lip.

"Best wait then," Sherlock said. "We're on holiday, after all. No need to rush."

The city spread out around, altogether different in tone and character from London, but the view wasn't an unpleasant one. Sherlock could admit (privately) the air seemed somewhat clearer here, although that was probably an illusion created by the predominance of white buildings rather than the dusty reds and browns of brick and sandstone he was used to.

But it wasn't Paris he was particularly interested in looking at. From here, all they could really see was the veneer, the bustling heart of the tourist centre hiding the real city, the one in which people lived and worked and lied and schemed and stole.

Vaguely, he wondered what it would be like to understand it as well as he did London, to pick up on all its subtle hints and secrets. He'd learned his way around well enough when he'd been here during his exile – always taking care to know everything he needed to keep himself alive, hidden, and as safe as he could be, but discarding it as unnecessary once he'd returned home.

London was his, and he'd slipped back into it like putting on an old, comfortable coat. Paris, like the other cities he'd slunk into, had its own allure, but never enough to keep him. They'd been stopping points, nothing more than necessary battles fought with only one goal in mind.

Home.

John.

Even the views of London weren't particularly interesting in and of themselves. Sherlock used them for information, observing a slowly shifting landscape, gleaning patterns from the way it changed and moulded itself to new circumstances.

It was John he watched – or wanted to watch. He couldn't always, of course – there were practicalities like John's work and cases and, occasionally, other people – but there were also moments like this, when Sherlock knew enough about social interaction to realize that staring at his partner would make John uncomfortable and draw attention to them.

So he positioned himself behind John, using contact to replace observation, standing at the right angle to see the profile curve of John's face out of the corner of his eye, and it didn't look odd when he glanced down, nodding at or replying to something the doctor was saying. The words scarcely mattered, although Sherlock listened anyway, because John did matter.

The tone of John's voice, the lightness of his stance, the smile on his face – Sherlock drank them all in, almost but not quite able to ignore the stab of fear they caused.

It felt somehow selfish, being unable to simply let go and enjoy the moment. The sunshine, the warmth of John's body against his, the pleasure of being able to wrap one arm around John's waist, hands linked by interlaced fingers.

All of it seemed almost brittle, as if it could snap and shatter at any second. There was a wavering disconnect between himself and the ordinariness of the day. The tower was firm beneath him, tourists and languages flowed around him, traffic moved below in predictable, if somewhat backwards, patterns.

It was all there, solid, palpable, real.

It felt like he was in a play or a film, aware that it was all staged, that behind the normality lurked something else.

There was an unease always present in the back of his mind, a shadow wrapped lightly but unshakeably around his heart. He hated the sentimentality of it, how it refused to budge in the face of logic and rationalization.

Because it was logical. The fear of losing John was grounded in reality. He had before.

Mary was still out there, and the Woman.

But the price – his price – was so much higher now than it had ever been. He'd watched it go up, at first almost blissfully unaware, since the moment John had stepped – or limped – into his life. He'd traded all of it to keep John alive, and would do the same again in a heartbeat, without a second thought, if he had to.

Mary wouldn't come after John, not unless John got in her way. Sherlock was the more likely target, but he could trust her, perversely, only to do it if she had to. If he became problematic, the way Jim had, or Moran. It was simple mathematics to her. Subtract a nuisance, smooth things over.

But to the Woman… he'd taunted her with it once, without realizing the cruel symmetry of it. It was all just a game, she'd said. A desperate lie, a buried plea not to expose her.

He had anyway, because it was a game. Or had been. A risky one, where every step had been on thin ice, and he despised admitting to himself that he'd become entangled. He should have known better, so soon after Moriarty and the pool, and he felt his own disdain for becoming involved so much more keenly than Mycroft's disapproval.

He'd let himself do it, and it had been easy enough to justify with the work. A bright, shiny distraction that didn't really matter in the end, because it could be put aside for something he preferred, something he'd grown so used to he had stopped even questioning it.

Something– someone he needed like breathing. Around whom everything revolved, like the earth apparently did around the sun.

She'd realized it, of course. So had Moriarty. Jim had toyed with Sherlock, dangling John's life in front of him, but not carelessly. Calculated. Deliberate. Threatening to take it away, so Sherlock would dance to Jim's tune.

She, on the other hand… She'd simply taken John away, to show Sherlock what would happen.

There were still times he couldn't breathe for the rage.

And she was still out there, like a shadow, like distant laughter.

He wanted her gone.

Mary he would fight, not for himself. For John, and for Harry, who was important to John. Because it needed to be done. It was what he did.

It was personal, but he would have done it regardless.

The Woman… he would have left her alone. Content in the knowledge that she was out there, somewhere, and she'd come and gone from his life, significant once and then not.

Until Wales.

Until she'd taken the only thing that had ever mattered, as if it hadn't mattered at all. Until she'd caged him in his own mind, terrified, suffocating. Until he'd felt himself crumbling, his centre turned into nothingness, sucking him in.

He was going to stop her.

He wasn't going to play games. He wasn't going to gloat. He wasn't going to make her pay.

He was only going to take away the power she held over him, and put it back where it belonged.

John was the only one with any right.

Which was why Sherlock still heard every word, why the bright, brittle anger didn't mask the sound of his partner's voice. Why he had agreed to stay here on this unexpected (and still somewhat annoying) holiday. Why he said yes to the appallingly domestic plan of a picnic and the even more dismaying idea of a visit to the Louvre with its teaming crowds after lunch.

Why he shut the door on her as they left the Eiffel Tower, because she had no rights and John deserved nothing less than all of him.