Okay, this puppy's going to be 8 chapters total; I thought this would be the last chapter, but it got very long! Rest assured, chapter 8 is in draft form and coming along soon. :) -ss

Getting to their next destination had been arduous. Their trek had been full of the usual joys of worldwide travel. A long, crowded flight from Florence to Mexico City, a ridiculously long layover, and then a frankly terrifying ride on a commuter plane to Cozumel. The shuttle bus to the hotel was alright, but then there was no record of their reservations.

"Again, Señor, I apologize," the concierge said in his generically respectful tone, "but there are no rooms in Cozumel for this week."

John frowned. "How is it possible that an entire island is full up?" he wondered aloud. He snuck a glance at Molly, who sat in the lobby amongst all their luggage, epitomizing the word 'bedraggled.'

"Unfortunately, it is true. However, we have found accommodation for you on the mainland, near the city of Tulum. It is very private, very beautiful-"

John fumed. How could Sherlock find them if they weren't where they were supposed to be?

"-and I have asked Juan Pedro to escort you and the señorita there himself," the concierge finished.

Mouth open to object, John turned to look in the direction the concierge had indicated. Near the registration desk was a stocky and dark-skinned older man, standing up straight and looking right at him. The man removed his cap, holding it in his hand, and nodded once at John.

Gladstone.

At first it seemed Mycroft's plan B was to send them into the middle of the Mexican jungle, as Juan Pedro drove them south from the marina into the Sian Ka'an Biosphere Preserve. At some point they exited the coastal highway and now he was turning their car down an almost impossible-to-discern dirt road.

In the back seat, Molly looked pointedly at John, arms crossed, head cocked.

"I'm sure Juan Pedro knows what he's doing," John offered.

"I see a pattern, is all," she said.

And he smiled, remembering their previous seaside excursion near Brighton.

But then the jungle parted, and the quiet, smiling man was depositing them at their very private cabana on a very private beach.

Molly felt like she was stepping inside a living postcard.

The cabana was simple, a rectangle with big windows, a front porch, and a thatched roof. John helped Juan Pedro haul the luggage inside and Molly followed. It was small, one main room with a kitchen alcove and a separate bathroom, one enormous bedroom, and a cozy sitting area. It was full of sunlight and air, with splashes of bright white linens and tropical plants throughout. Molly stood by the smooth, snowy bed and lifted her eyes, gazing out the picture window. Nothing but sand, sea, and sky, almost ludicrous in their perfection.

John stood in the compact kitchen with the older man. Having already established that neither John nor Molly spoke more than three thimblefuls of Spanish, Juan Pedro began explaining in his passable, heavily accented English. "The maid comes Wednesdays and Saturdays," he said.

John nodded.

"In the mornings, ten o'clock." He then pointed to the cupboards and opened the fridge, which was fully stocked.

"She will bring more food then, too."

John thought they'd have a hard time eating half of it before then. Juan Pedro closed the fridge and handed a key to John, who took it, but held it in his hand a moment, thinking.

"And, is the cabana," John started, hoping his message would get across. "Is it clean?"

"Sí, Señor. That's why El Jefe moved you here."

"El Jefe?"

"The boss. Señor Mycroft."

Hope crept into John's chest; he tried to fight it, but its fingers curled possessively around his heart and squeezed. Here. It'll happen here.

He wanted to hug Juan Pedro. Hell, he wanted to hug Señor Mycroft.

After 24 hours in paradise, John was still hopeful, but anxious, so anxious.

After 36 hours, John dreamt of the desert, and soft black curls blowing away into the wind, and then Molly was singing "Here Comes Your Man" and it was helping.

After 48 hours, John hated sand. He hated palm trees, and soft, warm breezes, and the fucking turquoise ocean. He hated Sherlock. But not really.

After 52 hours, John wandered out of the cabana, carrying an enormous bowl of tropical fruit. Molly, lounging on the porch, looked up from her novel but said nothing.

John continued to the edge of the lazy waves and set the bowl down, grabbing limes as he stood up again. If he'd had his gun, he would have used the fruit for target practice. For now, he took one lime at time and with fluid, full-body movements, hurled them into the afternoon sea. He had just begun to wonder if the mangoes would float when he heard the parrots squawk, and turned to watch them exult from the trees at the edge of the jungle only ten meters away, and then, John saw someone emerging onto the sand.

The fingers round his heart clutched so tightly, he felt his heart stop, his breath hitch.

His hair was still dark, but very short, and he had maybe a fortnight's worth of facial hair going. He squinted in the relentless afternoon sun as he took a few slow steps towards John. The short -sleeved button down shirt and cargo shorts revealed his tanned but too-thin physique.

John froze.

Sherlock hesitated.

John's heart continued not beating, and Sherlock began to come closer, his eyes looking down, away, flicking to the deathgrip John had on a mango in his right hand. John's eyes were locked on Sherlock's face, had been the whole time.

He was close enough now that John could see the freckles on his cheeks.

Sherlock finally lifted his gaze, and John saw that Sherlock had lost his courage. He may have walked over to John like a dog with his tail between his legs, but now he straightened up, schooled his face, was on the verge of saying something nonchalant or flippant. Sherlock parted his lips to speak.

"Anything less than an abject, utter, complete apology and you'll regret it," John threatened, and though his voice was mostly calm, his body was as rigid as a tiger ready to pounce.

Sherlock frowned. "Now you'll think I'm apologizing just because you threatened me," he reasoned, his voice sounding exactly the same, exactly, and John, for a moment, forgot that he was angry.

But only for a moment. He cleared his throat. "Try anyway," he ordered.

Sherlock fought his urge to rebel and said, "I am sorry."

"Not good enough," John said immediately.

Sherlock cocked his head. "I am very sorry?" he offered.

"Not nearly good enough," John answered, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

"I was trying to protect you," Sherlock stated.

"That's an excuse. That's not an apology," John explained, still gripping the mango rather fiercely and holding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock lowered his brows. "You said 'friends protect people'; that's what I did."

"You don't believe that. You never listen to me. You said 'alone protects me'; and that's what you did!" John answered, losing control over his voice.

And Sherlock sighed, the sigh he used when John didn't understand something, the sigh he used when he was frustrated and overwhelmed. His hands pushed through his short hair and then came up pleadingly in front of John.

"Alone did protect me; it protected you! And Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock defended, raising his voice.

"Protect me from what? From what!" John demanded.

"From being dead!" he shot back.

John took a breath. Made sure Sherlock was looking at him. "Death is not the worst thing that can happen to someone," he countered.

Sherlock had enough awareness to look ashamed.

"And the why of it-"

"Oh, come on, John!" Sherlock was openly skeptical. "You honestly believe you could have feigned grief so well that everyone would believe me dead?"

John stilled. "I could do anything to keep you safe."

And it was Sherlock's turn to feel his heart stop.

"I would do anything to protect you."

And Sherlock's shoulders sagged.

"If you'd fucking let me," John growled.

Sherlock looked down and away.

"And you were never alone. You aren't alone."

And Sherlock lifted his head, but wouldn't look directly at him. "Yes, I am," he answered automatically, dismissively.

John tried to be patient, but the mango was quickly becoming an inedible, pulpy mass as he clenched his hand reflexively.

"No, you're not," he said, managing to control his voice.

Sherlock, annoyed, used his 'speak slowly so the idiot will understand' tone. "Yes. I. Am."

And John simply couldn't bother being careful anymore.

The words exploded out of him like a grenade.

"No, you're NOT!"

He tossed the stupid mango, took one large step forward into Sherlock's personal space, and shoved his hand against Sherlock's chest.

"YOU. ARE. NOT. ALONE!" John punctuated each word with a shove, and Sherlock was stumbling backwards in the soft sand.

John continued walking forward, forcing Sherlock to retreat. "There are people who would have helped you!"

It was not possible to stop the tears at this point, nor the way his voice was rising in pitch and volume. "People who cared about you, people who loved you!" And because that didn't seem quite right, not quite enough-

"I loved you!" John said, his voice finally cracking.

Sherlock stopped moving.

John stopped breathing.

Shit. Shit.

Fuck it.

"I love you."

Sherlock's face, so skilled at hiding emotion, seemed at war with itself, and after a moment, his features simply crumpled inward, brow scrunching down, mouth in a tight line, and then his knees seemed to fail him, and John watched in shock as Sherlock Holmes fell into a heap on the sand.

John was on his knees in an instant.

"Sherlock?" he asked softly, touching his friend's shoulder.

And Sherlock simply reached for him, clutching John's arms, clumsily pulling them together. He buried his face in John's shoulder, and John wrapped his arms around Sherlock, who, beyond all expectations, appeared to be sobbing.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he chanted against John's shirt, his wrecked voice croaking out apology after apology.

Molly, from her vantage point on the porch, wiped away her own tears and sighed.

"I told you," she said softly. "Being idiots. Hugging. And crying."

She sniffled and then turned to go back inside to give the idiots their privacy.

Molly lay on the bed, letting her relief fill her eyes with tears, not fighting them in the least.

Finally.

After what seemed like an eternity but was probably only fifteen minutes, she heard noises in the sitting room. A muffled argument. A thump followed by a groan.

She'd been hoping John wasn't actually going to throttle Sherlock, but perhaps that had been too high of an expectation.

She closed her eyes and rubbed them with the heels of her hands, then stood and tiptoed out into the sitting room.

She walked around the edge of the sofa to find Sherlock supine and stretched out across it, his head against one armrest and his toes almost touching the other, and John laid on top of him, arms around Sherlock's waist as though he had just tackled him and fully intended to keep him trapped there forever.

Sherlock looked up at her. John's face was turned away from her, buried in Sherlock's chest.

She knelt by the sofa. She looked at John and then back at Sherlock's open, guileless expression.

"So . . ." she trailed off, with no plan or intent.

"John . . . " he began softly, almost whispering. "Expressed . . . an array of emotions," he continued.

Molly nodded.

"And then . . ." Sherlock tilted his chin towards John's prone form. ". . . collapsed."

"Yes. I heard."

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted.

"Oh, not the expressing of emotions bit. Just the tackling," Molly reassured him softly.

"You don't have to whisper," John mumbled. "I'm not asleep."

"Are you going to let me up now?" Sherlock asked.

"No."

"But-"

"No."

Sherlock sighed, but also might have adjusted his left arm a bit more comfortably along John's back.

Molly smiled at Sherlock, but her eyes were tearing up again, and she reached a hand up to his shoulder.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"No-" he protested, but she had to get it out.

"I'm sorry I didn't keep your secret; I know I put us all in danger," she said in a rush.

John turned his head now to look at her. He wanted to reassure her; but he wanted to know what Sherlock would say to her more.

"Molly. I-I put you in an impossible situation. It is I who should be sorry," Sherlock declared, as graciously as he could while John's arms tightened around him.

Molly let out a little laugh of relief. "I'm. I'm going to hug you now," she warned him.

"I don't see how," Sherlock answered, looking around himself to indicate the small amount of available body for her to hug, taken up as it was by an understandably emotional ex-army doctor.

She threw herself upon him anyway, one arm sliding around his neck, one arm sliding around John, and she squeezed tightly.

John loosened his grip around Sherlock to reach his left arm around her shoulders, and felt Sherlock's right arm come around to do the same.

Mycroft had given them the gift of time, a whole 24 hours before Sherlock had to move on to the next part of his plan.

After the group hug on the sofa, John decided the agenda would consist completely of emptying as many concrete answers out of Sherlock as he could while simultaneously filling him up with as many calories as possible.

They sat at the square, heavy oak table in the kitchen area. John glared at Sherlock until he started in on his plate of carne asada, beans, and rice. John pushed a plate of sliced avocado towards him to boot, and though Sherlock rolled his eyes, he served himself a few slices, and John relaxed a fraction.

Molly brought three opened beers to the table and set one in front of each of them.

"Ta," John said, and without thinking simply leaned towards her for a kiss, which she gave him before settling into her seat.

"So, this Sebastian Moran," Molly began, turning to Sherlock. "He's the last link to Jim?"

Sherlock paused a moment before answering. "Yes. And I'm fairly certain he has determined I'm alive, or at least suspects."

"Well, you have been killing off or imprisoning everyone he knows," John pointed out.

"Yes, well, now it's going to be much harder to find him. We've just been chasing each other halfway around the world."

"Why do they care? Why would they all have been loyal to J-" She revised. "To Moriarty once he was dead?" Molly asked.

"At first, no one believed Moriarty was dead. It wasn't until Moran had proof of his death and officially took over the organization that belief in Moriarty's invincibility crumbled. But Moran does not inspire the same admiration in others that he felt for Moriarty," Sherlock explained, resting back in his seat.

John looked at him and then pointedly at his plate. Sherlock frowned but sat up straight again, fixing himself another taco.

"So Moran's president of the fan club?" Molly asked.

"It would seem so," Sherlock answered around a mouthful of food. He swallowed. "No one with that kind of loyalty to Moriarty is left. Those who had threats against them have found those threats . . . removed. The mercenaries now know the money is gone, located and seized by Mycroft's people three weeks ago."

"Any leads on Moran?" John asked.

Sherlock frowned. "The man is a ghost."

After dinner, Molly continued, in her completely not subtle way, to try to give them privacy, insisting on doing the dishes despite John's protestations, and making a show of fetching her iPod and putting earphones in.

John and Sherlock moved back to the sitting area with their second bottles of Bohemia, and sat in the two wicker armchairs, facing out towards the ocean as dusk fell over the beach.

John could hear Molly singing softly to herself in the kitchen, and his face answered with a bittersweet smile. He caught Sherlock watching him, trying to deduce why his smile was tinged with sorrow.

John decided to help him out. "She sings to me at night. When I have nightmares," he said.

Sherlock stared back at him, eyes bright, brows drawn just the slightest bit.

He wouldn't ask the question. He already deduced the answer.

John let it be.

"Let me help you," John said. "Let us. We can continue this trip, help you along the way, and back home, in London."

Sherlock blinked, finally breaking their gaze.

"And she's . . . amenable?" Sherlock asked, dubious.

"Amen-?" John's chin lifted as he caught Sherlock's implication. "What d'you mean, 'amenable'!" he demanded.

Sherlock continued staring out at the waves. "Nothing, I simply was-"

"No, no. Not nothing," John answered, offended now. "Are you actually implying that I would insinuate myself on her that way?"

Sherlock shot him a withering glare. "Don't be ridiculous, John."

"Or that it's some kind of hardship for her, she's just having to grin and bear it, being with me?"

"Oh, for God's sake."

"Or that-" John stopped suddenly, sitting up straighter. "Oh."

Sherlock couldn't help himself. "What?"

"You're upset because she wants to be with me."

"Don't be an idiot."

John rolled right over this as though Sherlock had not spoken. "Because she was head over heels infatuated with you, and now she's with me." John might have been just a little bit smug.

"Patent nonsense," Sherlock replied, rolling his eyes dramatically. But John stilled, watching him silently until Sherlock finally met his eyes.

"She loves you," he said in all seriousness.

The last thing Sherlock wanted to do was talk about feelings, but he couldn't keep the confusion from his features.

John broke eye contact and turned his head to the kitchen.

"Molly?" he called, loudly enough for her to hear over her music.

She turned and popped her earphones out.

"Yeah?"

"Explain to Sherlock about the knots."

A few minutes later there was a trinity knot drawn on the palm of Sherlock's right hand in ballpoint ink, and he stared at it as it though it was not entirely ridiculous.

"That's. Not inaccurate," he managed.

Molly went to bed first, kissing John goodnight and giving Sherlock a peck on the forehead before retreating to the bedroom.

Sherlock and John sat in the dark, listening to the waves.

After their group hug on the sofa, everything had felt strangely, surreally normal between them, as though they were home in London, being domestic, even bickering with each other. But now, with Molly asleep, with the dark surrounding them, John felt himself crashing back into reality.

Sherlock, alive, yes, but very much in danger.

Their brief respite from tension seemingly over, John hadn't the slightest idea what to think, much less what to say, and he felt the anxiety returning, pricking at the nape of his neck. Sherlock sat deathly still, and John found it easier to turn his eyes to the sea, to the palm fronds ruffling in the night breeze.

"I-" Sherlock began. John looked at him, but he had pursed his lips together and squeezed his eyes shut.

John waited.

"You were right," Sherlock said, and John couldn't help his eyes widening. "You could help me. You are entirely convincing as a couple. You are a couple."

And if Sherlock sounded surprised, John chose to ignore it. Any easy banter from earlier in the day seemed inappropriate now somehow. The silence returned and lingered for a while, sitting uneasily between them. Eventually, the wicker creaked as Sherlock shifted in his seat and looked down.

"I did all of this," he began, "the deception, keeping it from you, chasing Moran, all of it, I did it for . . ."

John waited.

Sherlock sighed. Scratched his neck. Wouldn't look at him. Finally, he took a breath and began, "What you, erm, what you said, earlier . . ." He gestured lamely to the beach.

Oh. That.

"That was . . ."

John rushed in. "We don't have to talk about it."

Sherlock huffed in relief and his shoulders visibly relaxed. "Oh, thank God."

Waves and wind, ceaseless.

"You should sleep," Sherlock finally said, nearly startling John.

"I don't know if I can," John answered.

Sherlock nodded and didn't say anything else, but John could read what they were both not saying. There were simply too many feelings, too many untidy, pushy words crowding around them, all of which would have to wait.

"Goodnight, then," John said, standing, completely unsure of what to do with his hands.

"Goodnight, John," Sherlock said without looking at him, and it was all stupid, and male, and inadequate, but John turned anyway and walked into the bedroom. He left the door wide open.

Sherlock thrashed about on the sofa for an hour, trying to find a comfortable position. John heard a sharp thump and a slightly muffled curse. He knit his brows and opened one eye to see Sherlock standing on his side of the bed, frowning.

He noticed Sherlock's fingers clenching.

"Come on, then," he said, and scooted closer to Molly, leaving a pillow and a good chunk of the bed for Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't have to be told twice and somehow folded his lanky self into the bed under the coverlet. John yelped.

"Jesus! Your feet are freezing," he complained.

"Shh. You'll wake Molly," Sherlock reasoned.