I am SO sorry that this chapter took me over a month to post. I had it about half-way finished, and then my computer got a virus, and I had to reboot the entire system, so, goodbye hours and hours of toiling! Lol. This isn't as good as the original that I had going, and the 'showdown' between Mycroft and Sherlock is, in my opinion, rather disappointing, it's more like they're just thinking out loud the entire time. But then, that's kind of what I wanted. This is a sad chapter in a way, and you'll see why when you get to the end! Oh and does anyone watch Supernatural? I'm currently obsessed with it, just started watching it about a week ago. Castiel is amazing, enough said. Is that a Sherlock/Supernatural crossover I see in the near future? *Gasp!* I think it is! Anyway, enjoy!

BAM! BAM!

"Watson! WATSON, you wanker! We need you here, now!"

"Just leave him; he's a goner!"

"You can't save him! YOU CAN'T SAVE HIM!"

John jolted awake. Sunlight was filtering in through the windows and illuminating the sitting room. He was lying on the couch, half-covered by a thin afghan, and Sherlock was standing over him, two fingers pressed firmly into his left shoulder. Then, the pain hit.

He slapped Sherlock's hand away immediately with a hiss. "Don't touch me," he said, and his voice came out as more of a snarl than he'd intended.

Sherlock's initial response was a quizzical cocking of his head, followed by turning and walking over to the window, staring down into the street. "You were dreaming," he said softly. "A nightmare, no doubt."

John rolled his eyes as he stood up. His right hand automatically found his now-throbbing shoulder and pressed on it firmly. He'd take pressure over pain any day. After twisting his hips around in a full stretch, he looked over in Sherlock's direction. "Oh I was, was I?"

Way to play dumb. You know you were, for Christ's sake, you've had them nearly every night since you left Afghanistan.

"Yes."

John frowned. He had hoped Sherlock would be a bit more elaborative. Then again, it shouldn't have come as a huge surprise—after only a week of knowing the man, John knew that Sherlock Holmes didn't say any more or less than suited him. Even Lestrade, who had known Sherlock for five years, said that he barely knew anything about the man, said that he had only just found out that he had a brother.

John felt a surge of pride at this realization, but it was almost instantly followed by the stabbing pain of apprehension. Why was Sherlock taking such an interest in him? Why did he open up his home to John, give him a scarf, a meal, a warm place to sleep? Why did he take him to confront McNamara?

"My brother will be here shortly," Sherlock told him, turning away from the window to face John.

Seeing Sherlock standing at near-full height again—he was still just a tad bit bent at the waist and hunched in the shoulders—John could see how the last few days had affected him. Thankfully, the wound hadn't been anywhere as serious as it could've been, he could've died, truth be told, but now he was here, standing before John, as alert as ever. His skin was sickly pale, his hair was dirty and lying flat on his head, his body was even more even ganglier than it had been a week ago when they meet, but Sherlock's light green-gray eyes were as alert as ever.

John nodded. "Right. I think he likes me, your brother."

Sherlock shrugged carelessly. "Yes, I'm sure he does. You haven't given him any reason not to."

"He was worried about you," John told him. "It must be nice."

Cocking his head, Sherlock walked past John and into the kitchen, where he poured himself a small bowl of muesli and milk. "What do you mean by that?" he called to John.

John, at hearing the scratching sounds of the cereal sliding into the bowl, all but sprinted into the kitchen and yanked it out of Sherlock's hand. "No, no, no, I'll eat this, you stick with yogurt."

Sherlock groaned. "I'm sick of yogurt!"

"Yes, and I'm sure it's sick of you too, but you can't go shoving this,"—he shook the cereal box for emphasis—"down your throat; your stomach can't handle it. You need to eat soft foods."

Sherlock clenched his jaw, no doubt to keep himself from saying something in rebuttal. John took the opportunity to reach into the refrigerator and get two yogurts out for Sherlock, strawberry and vanilla. He handed them to the detective and then sat down across from him at the table.

You realize what you just did there, don't you? I'll eat this. What, it's your house now? Your food? You're getting too comfortable here, soldier.

John shook his head in a feeble attempt to get his own thoughts of his mind. Shut up, shut up, shut up!

"What I meant," John said after taking a large bite of muesli, "is that you're lucky that you have someone who gives a damn about you."

Sherlock snorted. "Well, lucky's not quite the word I would use for it."

"No, really. You should appreciate it."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, though he didn't sound sorry at all. "I didn't realize that it was important to appreciate being told what to do and what not to do, being told how to live your life. He tries to act like my father."

John felt a pang in his stomach at Sherlock's words. His family hadn't shown any real interest in him whatsoever while he was growing up, which, he was convinced, was what had driven him into the army in the first place. He'd been an above-average student and had several job offers upon graduating from Bart's, but he was more than ready to get out of London, so he had enlisted. It was, he decided upon reflection, both the best and worst decision he'd ever made.

After eating the strawberry yogurt, Sherlock stood and twisted around, then dropped his spoon into the sink. He walked out of the kitchen and John heard him slump down into one of the living room chairs.

With a slight roll of his eyes, John stood up—a challenge; his leg was hurting more than usual this morning—and dropped his own bowl and spoon in the sink before returning Sherlock's uneaten vanilla yogurt the fridge. He then turned back to the sink and washed the three dishes in it quickly but thoroughly before joining Sherlock in the living room. John sat down on the couch and began rubbing his leg tenderly, kneading it in all the right spots. He sighed appreciatively as the stabbing pain eased back into the dull, ever-present throb that he was used to.

A soft knock at the door pulled John's attention from his leg and Sherlock's from yesterday's newspaper. They both glanced at their front door to see Mycroft standing there, taking up almost the whole doorframe. He was wearing a gray tweed suit with a white shirt and dark red tie. In his right hand he held his umbrella, which he was tapping against the floor.

"Good morning, John," he said cordially, and then let his gaze move from John to his brother. He nodded curtly. "Sherlock."

Sherlock gave him one of his faster-than-light sarcastic smiles, and Mycroft's frown deepened, but he didn't comment on his brother's mockery. Instead, he walked over to the vacant chair across from Sherlock and sat down. He stared at Sherlock for only a few seconds longer, and then twisted around to look at John.

"So, John," Mycroft said, a small smirk on his face, as he crossed his legs and let his umbrella drop to the floor beside him, "my brother tells me that you volunteered yourself to be at our deductive mercy."

John immediately glared at Sherlock, only to find that the detective once again had his nose buried in the post. Damn it, Sherlock! John tried to fight his emotions, and managed to plaster a tiny smile onto his face. "Oh, did he now?"

"Yes. Although I must admit, it came as quite a surprise. Most people get unnerved when Sherlock tells them their own life story."

John nodded as he remembered the discussion Sherlock and he had had about the topic. "Yes, that's what he said. Now, look, I just want to make it clear, I didn't exactly volunteer for this. I was trying to help him—"

"You're not lazy, that much is obvious," Mycroft interrupted, his eyes scrunching up as he scrutinized John. "So your reason for being on the streets isn't due to a lack of work ethic, leading to the inability to find a job." His head twitched thoughtfully. "But, in this economy, that's hardly unheard of."

"Maybe he works on a freelance basis," Sherlock suggested, not looking up from the paper. "Yes, he's been invaluable to me this past week, but he's also been performing a variety of tasks."

Mycroft nodded slowly. "I suppose that's a viable solution. The rigor of a regular nine-to-five job didn't appeal to you, so you did small jobs, or perhaps something in the field of fine arts, until the income was no longer sufficient.

"When I first met you, John, you put the health of my brother as your first and foremost priority. I'll be honest; this was rather surprising to me at first, until I stood back and analyzed your situation. You'd known Sherlock only a few short days before he invited you here—" Mycroft raised his hands to motion that he was referring to the flat—"and he fed you, gave you a place to sleep, items that you didn't have access to before—a shower, a toothbrush, hairbrush, clean clothes. Then it became obvious to me. You feel indebted to him."

John shrugged carelessly. "Yeah, so?"

Mycroft smiled at him, a smile that would have scared John had he not known that Mycroft really was a kind and caring man. There was just something about his grin that John didn't feel comfortable with.

Mycroft shook his head. "Nothing, John. Just thinking out loud."

"Both your leg and shoulder were injured before we met," Sherlock stated suddenly. John looked at him, only to be met with the man's piercing gaze. "Then you were beat up, and then shot by McNamara's goons. I noticed you bandaged your arm?"

John's eyes immediately fell on his left forearm. Yes, he had bandaged the wound late the night he'd been brought back to Baker Street by Lestrade. It wasn't a serious injury, more of a deep scratch.

"Then there was the way you handled my own injury," Sherlock continued. "You changed my dressing like a pro. No doubt you have some past experience in caring for wounds."

John felt his cheeks begin to burn, and he leaned back in the couch, hoping he could hide the reddening tint from the Holmes brothers. Sherlock was getting awfully close to home, and he didn't like it one bit. John nodded nonchalantly. "Yes, well, living on the streets, you either figure out how to take care of yourself, or you die. Simple as that."

"It's not only that," Sherlock continued. "It's not at all hard to tell that you've got pride issues. You've got bruises and scars all over your body; obviously, you don't let people get the best of you without a fight. Even when I told you to leave McNamara's apartment, you refused. When I met you, you had a clean face and clean hands, your clothes were void of mud stains, grass, blood, and etcetera. I've never seen a homeless man that took as much pride in his appearance."

John chuckled and shook his head. "It's not that I care about what I look like, exactly…I just don't want to look gross."

"You're a vagrant, John," Mycroft said gently. "People expect you to look gross."

"But you hold yourself to a higher standard," Sherlock pressed. "Not only do you try to make yourself look socially acceptable, but you act like it too. You were hesitant to take my scarf, to come into the flat, hell, I had to all but shove that Chinese down your throat."

"Yes, fine!" John interrupted, holding up his hands as if to stop their words. "You're right. I don't like accepting charity. I don't like being so helpless. Call it pride, stubbornness, stupidity, whatever you want."

"Oh, we never doubted any of that, John," Mycroft told him as he uncrossed his legs and leaned forward. "What we don't know is why. Why are you so reluctant to accept help? Why do you hold yourself to such a high standard, even when it clearly makes your life even harder than it already is?"

John shrugged. "I don't know," he said simply.

"Perhaps he's overcompensating," Sherlock suggested to his brother. John could no longer fight the blush that was rising to his cheeks, and they instantly turned a deep red shade.

"What?"

Sherlock stared at John, his head cocked and his brow furrowed. "I meant you're overcompensating for your height, or rather, lack thereof," he said slowly, as if speaking to a child. "By refusing to accept help, by picking fights, you may be attempting to show that you can take care of yourself. Why, what did you think I meant?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes at Sherlock's ignorance; obviously, even he understood the cultural reference. He leaned back into his chair and interlaced his fingers together, then let his chin rest on top of them. "I don't understand," Mycroft said softly, as if more to himself than to John or his brother. "There is nothing explicitly special about you. You're a homeless man who simply doesn't want to accept his position. Your posture, your facial expressions, your manner of speaking—they all seem, to me, to be expressive of a broken man."

John's eyes shot up to meet Mycroft's as the words left the man's lips, and Mycroft nodded slowly.

"Ah. So I'm correct?"

John didn't answer, just continued to stare at Mycroft as the man looked him over. "You're prideful. Very well, that's hardly a rare find in this day and age. Sherlock tells me you have no friends and family that you can, or rather, that you would go to. Yet, you rescued an animal off the streets. You helped to nurse my brother back to health. Something is keeping you from opening up to people. But what?"

John smirked, although it held none of the pride or pleasure that the action normally does. "That's for me to know, and you to find out."

Mycroft left shortly after, and John breathed a sigh of relief when he was gone. Now, almost four hours later, John felt himself wishing that he'd walked out the door too. Sherlock had been staring at him constantly. He'd hardly even tried to be discreet about it, opting instead to look at John over the book he was reading or the laptop screen. Even during their lunch, every time Sherlock brought his cup of water up to his lips, he was staring at John over the top of it. No doubt, he was trying to learn anything about everything about John that he could.

Doctor Jaeger stopped in and was there for a mere five minutes; he pulled Sherlock's shirt up and pressed gently on the wound, then grunted in satisfaction, told Sherlock he was going to be fine, asked him how he was doing on pain meds, and then left.

John…everyone's leaving him. So, what are you still doing here?

John stood up and bit his bottom lip nervously. Sherlock, of course, was watching him. John dropped his hands to his sides and forced a smile onto his face.

"I'd better be going," he said softly.

Sherlock's brow furrowed and his face deepened into a slight frown. "Going…where?"

You can't stay with him forever. You're nothing but a burden to him. Get out and let him get back to his life.

John chuckled and shrugged his right shoulder. "Well, home."

Sherlock stared up at him with a blatantly confused expression. "John, you…you don't have a home."

"Yeah, no shit, Sherlock," John said, chuckling again, although anyone with a brain and an ear could tell that it was forced. "But, you're better now, and McNamara, I'm sure, is long out of the country, so there's nothing left for me to do but get out of your hair. Which, by the way, needs washed."

John had expected Sherlock to groan at that comment, but he didn't; he smiled. It was a small smile, and Sherlock dropped his eyes from John's to the ground as soon as it began to tug at the corners of his mouth, but it was most definitely a smile.

"Well," Sherlock said, pushing himself off the couch and reaching out a hand to John. "Stay warm out there."

John took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it once, then nodded resolutely. "Yeah. I'll try." He picked his coat off the floor—he'd thrown it into the corner and hadn't looked at it since—and pulled it on, then pulled his scarf and gloves out of it and put them on. Of course, Phree picked that moment to come out of her hiding spot in Sherlock's bedroom—naturally, she picked the one spot in the house that she wasn't welcome—and meowed at him before proceeding to rub against his legs.

"Oh, hey there," John said as he bent down and picked her up, holding her against his chest. "I was just coming to get you."

"You know," Sherlock said, walking towards John, but stopping several feet away from him, "if you…well…if you want to leave her here…that's all right with me."

John smiled—a real smile, the kind that he rarely ever showed these days. "Really? You wouldn't mind?"

Sherlock shrugged and slipped his hands into the pockets of his robe. "No, I wouldn't mind. That is, if it's all right to leave her here. I understand if you want to take her with you—"

John shook his head and set Phree gently onto the chair. "No, no," he said quickly. "She's all I have. I—I want her to be happy, and she's much better off here than she is out there with me." John raised his head and his smile widened. "Thank you."

And with those last words, John turned and walked out of the room before he could change his mind. When he stepped outside, the familiar feeling of the freezing wind engulfed him, and he felt tears forming in the corners of his eyes.