Sherlock; 901 days after

Fifty five days since John left and he's back. It should make me feel happy, right? And it does – the problem is, he didn't write to let us know he will be coming.

That's the first.

He sent one letter trough those fifty five days and it was sent three days after his return to the camp. I counted it.

He never mentioned anything unusual, but hasn't written since then. There are two possibilities – he has either been sent onto a mission and just came back or injured.

I need more data to be sure which of them is right and seeing the soldier himself will certainly help.

For now it is to put on a kettle to prepare a tea and order a take out. Chinese, maybe.

Mycroft called me he will be sending Anthea to pick John up and take him home – they should be here in twenty minutes.

I take to kettle off, the tea would be already cold by the time John gets here.

In the end it take them thirty-seven minutes. Either they stopped to visit Mycroft, or were stopped by something unusual, like robbery. Which is ridiculous, because both John and Anthea are capable of taking care of themselves.

What is a scary thought, is those two fighting along side each other. I almost feel the need to pity anyone who would want to give them a hard time.

And why my brain insist on calling the woman Anthea?

John must have been rubbing off on me. Soon I will be wearing knitted jumpers and trying to be helpful and decent. Dull.

I forgot about the tea. Too late now, I can already hear them on the stairs. Multiple footsteps, one of them recognized as my brother, one is of course John and the silent steps would be 'Anthea', but who else? Two more footsteps.

I quickly put on the kettle and take five cups out of the cupboard. Yes, five. There is nothing that can put my brother into worse mood than being left out.

Two knocks on the door. Silence and three more. That's Lestrade. Greg. I am not sure why he feels the need to make his knocking so complicated – probably some compulsory behavior or his past as a part of the scouts or some other 'secret' group – but it's still much better than Mycroft, who wouldn't knock to save his figure.

"Come in Lestrade, John, Anthea.." I still haven't figured out the last person. I just hope it's not Anderson or Donovan.

"Sherlock." Lestrade is the first one who comes trough the door and nods at me instead of a greeting. Is he still angry with me? I really didn't want to loose the corpse. Or maybe it's because of the helicopter I stole. Or because I woke him at two in the morning to ask where is my phone, before I remembered it's in my other coat.

But that couldn't be it, could it? John never minded.

"Hello Sherlock." John greets me with a grin, but it looks tired. So injury it was. Or not? I don't see anything wrong on him, just dark circles beneath his eyes. And he looks thin. Very thin. "You are making a tea? Are you expecting the Queen?" the soldier asks me and throws his jacket off. He is wearing a bright red jumper. God save me.

"I thought so – isn't my brother with you?" I decided not to carry on with my plan to piss Mycroft off in favor of reminding John and myself of the time we visited the Palace. John laughed which was even better than watching my brother stomp around like an angry rhinoceros.

"I think he is being confronted with the stairs." the soldier pointed up.

"You are mean, Dr. Watson." Is the ever-brilliant input of Mycroft's PA who isn't Anthea. Very smart. Not. I don't like her and it's not because of the easy way she seems to smile at my blogger. Well – I never quite liked sharing and I am the only genius John is allowed to adore.

My doctor finally manages to leave the hall, void of his shoes and shall as well, and makes his way into his chair. He sits down comfortably, bringing his knees up to lean on them.

"So who else did you invite for the party tonight?" I ask him while sitting into my own chair – the one that is right across of his, so that I can have a clear view of him and ignore everyone else – with just the tiniest bit of sarcasm.

"Who did you recognize?" John asks and it reminds me of all those times he knew I knew so he just decided not to try on his own and asked with a perfect trust I will tell him the truth.

"You." I start with the most obvious. I am slightly distracted by the way Anthea is moving around the kitchen, assisted by Lestrade, preparing the tea. Has she been here often? John did say something about her upgrading his phone. My phone. The dead tourist's phone. Whatever.

"Lestrade – by the knocking. My brother, because no one can miss a rhinoceros on the stairs -" here John let out a surprised chuckle, "Some woman, who could obviously only be Anthea, because Mycroft goes nowhere without his baby sitter. And there is one more person, probably went to greet Mrs. Hudson, because even my brother is already here." I explain quickly, John's eyes are never leaving mine.

"Nope." he disagrees and my smile grows, because if he isn't lying he knows something I don't and while that should be irritating, it actually isn't, because it's John.

"No? Explain."

"I texted her to wait for a moment. And if you want to ask 'why', it's because I wanted to see if you would deduce who she is."

"And she did. Meaning she either knows me or knows about me." I lean my head on top of my hand, gazing steadily on the doctor. "But I didn't recognize her footsteps. And it can't be your girlfriend, because you wouldn't leave some poor girl here all alone while you are in the war." I noticed my good doctor tensing. Traumatic experience? Again?

"So why is your sister here?" I finish with a broad grin. I won.

"Brilliant." John exclaims and claps his hand in a teasing manner. "And I am not sure. I think Mycroft saw it fit for her – with Detective Inspector himself – to be my escort home." he explains with a half-shrug. Aah – Mycroft. That explains about everything.

"That's only to be expected. Your departure from war was rather stressful after all." I point up what I deduced. Maybe he will tell me why was that stressful.

John tenses again, looking ready to run if he sees any sign of immediate danger. "What did Mycroft tell you?" he whispers, never looking away.

"Nothing John. Do keep up." I roll my eyes, ignoring the way his expression changes from shocked to angry to understanding. He settles on 'bland' and it's not even half as nice as his usual list of emotions is.

Anthea waltzes into the living room with two cups balanced in her hands. The kitchen must have been very crowded, considering the fact Mycroft already came and started arguing with John's sister about something.

They know each other? That could be dangerous. John told me she is older then him and if our older siblings come to some kind of understanding, we will never see a day of peace.

"John – your tea." the woman who isn't Anthea sings and makes herself comfortable on the arm of John's chair. She hands John his tea, sipping tryingly her own.

"Careful Anthea. It might be poisoned." I warn her trying to sound as serious as I could.

"Hardly, Sherlock, as I was the one who prepared it." she shoots back just as bitingly. Oh? So she is another part of John's fan-club who doesn't like me one bit.

"But I was the one who put on the water. And bought the tea."

"No. I changed the water and Mr. Holmes was the one who bought this tea."

John is smiling and watching us argue, while his sister argues with my brother and I suspect Lestrade has already left.

"I am 'Mr. Holmes'."

"But I am as well, or did you forget that, brother?" the rhinoceros appears again, followed into the room by small blond woman, who can only be John's sister. She is grinning broadly, but looks tired. Every few seconds she runs her hand trough her short hair, making it unruly and messy, her hands are shaking and she has already spilled part of her tea.

Nervous? Or cold-turkey?

"I would like to forget very much, Mycroft." I shoot back with a scowl. He really irritates me, all the more because he just calmly sits himself onto the couch. Harriet sits next to him and puts the tea onto the table.

She doesn't trust her own hands and tries very hard not to make it seen. Too bad for her me and my brother notice everything. And John with Anthea had to learn that as well by dealing with us.

"I can see Sherlock is just as nice as you are, Johnny." Harriet is turned towards her brother, obviously happy to be able to finally talk to him. I noticed John came with Lestrade and Anthea, while she with my brother followed behind.

"And why is that woman sitting so close to you? You didn't tell me you have a girlfriend." For some reason this comment makes everyone in the room uncomfortable, starting from John who chokes on his tea, to Anthea who drops her. My brother is frowning and that's like a jackpot. Maybe I could urge John to date that woman and Mycroft will drop dead from a cardiac arrest.

Well. No. It's not a good idea. John and her dating. Ew.

"No Harry, we aren't dating. And as for dating – how's Clara?" Ah – John is being mean. I love it when he is being mean. Not to me, of course.

"I haven't seen her since last Christmas." I never would have thought Harried could sound timid. "Well – I would love to stay longer, but I've gotta go." John's sister stands up, leaving her tea untouched, to leave.

"See you sometimes, Johnny." she pecks him on his cheek, giving hard stare to Anthea, who for some reason looks intimidated, before holding her hand for Mycroft to shake it.

Just like the gentleman he is, my brother sees it fit to stand up for the proccess. "It was very informational talking to you, Mrs. Watson."

"Yeah well.. Eh.. Bye, Mr. Holmes." very eloquent.

"Mycroft can give you a ride." I stand up as well. I have a plan. "He should be going as well, the government doesn't wait." I add with a very fake smile.

"Yes, of course. I shall see you again soon, Sherlock." Mycroft takes his umbrella – he has refused to leave it in the hall, instead taking it with himself – and Anthea stands up as well.

"Dr. Watson." Mycroft makes some comical indication of a bow and waltz out of the room.

"Bye!" I call back after him, completely ignoring his PA, who is quickly hugging John, before following her boss.

And then they are finally away and I can concentrate on deducing John.

John; 901 days after

I have been afraid of the time when they all leave me alone with only Sherlock, and obviously rightfully so – he is staring. I am not sure what he wants to see, but if he keeps looking like that at me, I will run.

"Is anything the matter, Sherlock?" I try to make him spill the beans, but I should know better, right? He just shakes his curly head and keeps staring.

It's not their fault, truly. Greg did tell me he has to be at work today and I was the one who sent my sister home. It's not that I don't like her – just every time she is in the same room like me, it feel too crowded. She has that little habit of talking just for the sake of talking.

As for Mycroft – I suspect he is a bit afraid of his own brother. Might have something to do with all the Moriarty thing. And I am not surprised the elder Holmes doesn't want to spend time with me – I don't want to see him either right now.

I thought we found some understanding, but he proved I was wrong.

"Stop trying to deduce me, Holmes." I finally snap, when I notice Sherlock even stopped blinking and his eyes are bit more red than I would like.

"What makes you think I am trying to deduce you?" is the ever-smart reply and I give him my answer in the way of rolling my eyes.

"Is there something you wanted to ask?"

"Yes. How long are you staying this time?" he asks and even I can tell – no, even Anderson would be able to tell that it's not what he wanted to know.

"About five minutes if you don't stop staring at me." Well – that's a lie. I don't care what he does, I don't want to leave – ever again. And seems like I don't have to, which is probably why is the detective staring at me.

He wants to know what happened – but damn me if I tell him that easily. I don't want to watch him trying to show emotions – concern, pity. I don't want that.

And I don't want to know whether he would hate his brother less for this, or even more.

"Alright." Sherlock nods his head and moves his eyes down, now obviously trying to burn a hole into the cups on the table.

"I exited the army." I inform him calmly – more calmly than I am feeling.

Sherlock looks up and I think I see hope in his eyes. It makes me feel warm, that he would still need me – but he survived for those two-and-something years without me, didn't he. To think he wants me to stay.. it's surprising and feels like a cold blow into my stomach, because it must be my own wistful thinking.

"Are you injured? That's why you didn't write?"

"I was on a mission." I admit and he has that 'I thought so' look on his face again.

"That was one possibility, why are you leaving the army, then?" he asks curiously, leaning closer. He still loves riddles just as much as he did before.

"I got injured." Maybe I should stop giving him one-sentence answers. But he is probably able to fill into the gaps anyway.

Sherlock leaps onto his legs and before I can blink, he is standing next to me, looking impatient. "Let me see." he barks his order, taking me unawares and I almost choke on nothing, because he can't see. Just no.

"No Sherlock." he frowns, giving me the look that he thinks I am childish.

"Hurry up John, I don't have all day."

"Yes, you do. Now piss off."

"John-" Sherlock moves to kneel in front of my chair, looking up at me. It's weird being higher than him – I feel colour entering my face. Not the right time to feel embarrassed.

"No. Don't, Sherlock." I close my eyes, leaning back into the chair. I am so tired.

"Alright." Sherlock whispers, but I can't hear him moving. He has something more planned, because he just can't give up, can he. "Do you want to talk about what happened?" he asks again, surprisingly gently and I am glad I have my eyes closed – I don't want to see his expression. I want to let myself belief he actually cares.

"Yes. I do. But I don't want you to know." I admit truthfully. It's way too large for me to hold it inside – it's trying to burn out of me, to lit on fire and turn me into an ash and everything I love with me.

"Go on, tell me." Sherlock urges and I feel soft touch on my knee. The detective is offering me his comfort – making me believe he is there and listening. That's what I tried to teach him, but thought he deleted it immediately after.

Next time, he will be giving me a blanket.

"I will delete it later, if you still wish me to. But I can promise, I will never judge you." his tone is fierce and I can't help but trust him, he is the one who saved me – my life is his.

"Come closer." I still keep my eyes closed, tugging on his hand to make him crawl onto the chair next to me, and partly over me, so that I can feel save and alive.

For past three weeks I spent in the hospital, I felt as if I wasn't even there. Just a piece of furniture, doctors came and left, talking to each other about me. They probably thought I didn't know what they talked about.

But I am a doctor as well.

Severe shock and dehydration, malnutrition, badly healed cuts and burns over arms, legs and back. Lucophobia and irrational distrust towards unknown people. Insomnia, alternating with long periods of comatose state.

Sherlock makes himself comfortable – at least as much as he can while sitting with other grown man in one small armchair.

"I want you to promise that you will do nothing about this situations and if I ask you, you will delete it completely and let it be."

"If I delete it, I won't remember I promised that. Therefore, I will continue asking until you tell me." he points up rather logically and I can imagine the pout he has on his face.

"I will remind you. Now, swear." I urge him, trying to make him see that it's important.

Sherlock; 901 days after

"Alright, John. I swear." I watch the doctor's face relax and he smiles, a small tired smile, but smile none the less.

"Good. Thank you." he breaths out, before falling silent for a moment. There are small wrinkles on his forehead – he is thinking about the best way how to start, which is ridiculous, because I don't care how he starts. I just want him to start and get it off of his chest, so that he can be his cheerful self again, again going to the crime scenes with me and poking fun of Anderson.

"Before I start I want to tell you it's Mycroft's fault." I open my mouth to say something, but John's fingers on my lips stop me. So he can read me. And predict me. I should do something unpredictable just to spite him – like jumping out of the window on a roller skates or kissing him or singing some rock song on the Trafalgar Square.

"Stay silent." John barks at me without even opening his eyes or removing his finger. I don't mind. Really.

"He wanted to help you because he cares about you, even though he doesn't know how to show it." why is he trying to justify my brother? Even more when he said it's Mycroft's fault..

What could have my brother done? There are lots of possibilities, but only about fifteen fits. I should be able to eliminate them one by one with the data I have. Starting with-

"Shut up, Sherlock."

"I didn't say anything!"

"You were thinking, that disturbs me." he throws my worlds back at me with a grin and I smile at him over his finger, which is left unseen. I did that as well, if I remember correctly. The first day I came back, I talked to him with my eyes closed – it was making everything easier.

"Shutting up." I mumble obediently and just moves a bit, so that I can lean my head onto his shoulder to hear him better.

"You wanted me back in London, so Mycroft went and decided to get me back to London. He just didn't choose very sensible way of doing so."

"He let you get inju-" John moves his hand so that his whole palm is over my mouth, instead of only the finger to shut me up. It's not very easy to calm down if what John implies is true, but I try. I breath in and out, before jerkily nodding my head, letting the doctor know he can continue.

"No more interruption, please. It's not easy to talk about this." he admits and I squeeze his arm in reassurance. "Not even the military psychiatrist didn't manage to make me tell her anything. You should think about changing your career."

Joking, trying to make the situations calmer, lighting the mood, relieving the tension. It doesn't work.

"What." I comment dryly. "To be your psychiatrist? I don't think you would survive very long."

John chuckles, even though he has to know I didn't mean it like a joke.

"You saved me once already, Sherlock. When I got shot. I wasn't very stable that time we met."

"I am aware. I even read your reports."

"And you think I don't know that? But like your brother said: She had it all wrong. And there was the thing she didn't know." Does he have to talk about my brother? I now want to kill him even more than usual.

"What was it?" I can't help but ask, even though I don't want to know. Not really.

"She wrote I never once thought about ending it off." he says calmly and how can he be calm?! If he had died.. If he had died.. I would have been dead as well.

"And did you?" Of course he did. I should have known. How come I didn't know?

The doctor laughs without any humour and doesn't answer.

"We were called on a mission. They didn't tell us it was a suicide mission, but it was. It was a mission for one person, but.. Psycho insisted on coming as well, when they decided to send me. 'Because I am a doctor. Because I am one of the bests. And because it wouldn't be my first SS mission.' But this time, this first time they let him come with me and that wasn't part of the plan, was it.." John breaths in and out, calming himself.

I want to ask lots of questions, because I already know the answers. Or is it 'despite of the fact'? Doesn't matter. John doesn't want me talking, he needs me to listen.

"We got captured and spent forty seven days as a special guests of some underground group of partisans Not very civilized bunch, are they." he comments dryly.

"And then?" I can't keep my mouth shut anymore. There is an 'and then', but it's not 'they lived happily ever after', is it. It's not even funny.

"Then they came – ours, but not 'ours' at the same time. Mycroft's people, though he didn't want me to know. They kept tabs on me, saving me just before I would.. be finished. Broken and injured to be sent home for you to try and pick up the pieces."

There is it. End of the tale. But there is still one thing unsaid and I need John to say it, because he won't heel if he doesn't.

"But they came to late, because they didn't know about him being there."

John is shaking now, gripping the arm of the couch to steady himself. I offer him my palm and he takes it, trying to stop the tears that are in his eyes from flowing freely.

"Charlie Masen. He didn't survive. Died the night before they came. I couldn't protect him." John sobs and hides his face into my neck, shaking freely. Letting it out – that's good. It will help.

"You did your best." I assure him, because of course he did. That's who John is. Trying to save everyone, but every time so damn surprised when someone tries to do the same for him.

"But it wasn't enough. I promised I will save him. He was a child.."

"He loved you." and it makes sense, doesn't it. For someone to fall for John, my John, even though he is oblivious.

John nods, not trusting his voice. He takes a breath and his shaking is subsiding, but I suspect it's just for a moment. He is almost hysterical and that comes in cycles.

"I loved him as well." he whispers and I smile. Always giving love to everyone around him. Even me.

"You did everything for him you could. I am sure he knows that. I am sure he died in piece – you were with him."

"Why would that help? Dying is not a good thing, no matter-"

"I did, remember? I asked you to watch before I jumped. I would do the same thing again. Even though it's selfish." I whisper, trying to move my arms around him to bring him closer and hold him save.

John shakes again – the second cycle. He will fall asleep again and wake up feeling numb. A bit surreal, meaning I have to do something to shock him tomorrow.

The man in my arms relaxes suddenly, falling asleep and I tug his phone out of his pockets, because the one I had been using is destroyed.

That's kind of funny – I stole it from him, but he got it from his sister who got it from her wife. I destroyed a phone of a woman I have never seen before in my life.

I text a quick message to Lestrade, asking to know if he has some murder for tomorrow and if he does he has to let us know. And if he doesn't than go and find some and let us know anyway.