Mary had not heard from Sherlock in three weeks, so seeing a picture of him in the morning paper came as quite a surprise. It was a large color photo, centered on Sherlock as he talked with John and DI Lestrade at what the caption described as the scene of a residential burglary in Brixton. The article said that NSY was diligently working on a series of burglaries that had taken place over the previous two months which were linked by a consistent lack of any evidence as to how the burglar had gotten in. The only clue left behind was the absence of the stolen items. The article ended with a quote from DI Lestrade that a new lead had been developed, and he expected to have an update within 48 hours.

Mary smiled. That meant Sherlock had solved it, and Lestrade would probably have the suspect in custody before the next morning paper came out, if he hadn't already picked him up by the time this one was printed.

So, Sherlock was well enough to go out on cases again. That had to make them both very happy. This image was the first time she had seen either of them since Sherlock collapsed at Baker Street, and she was relieved but surprised at how well he looked. The photographer had captured him in mid gesture, directing Lestrade's attention toward something on the wall behind them. Lestrade was looking at the spot Sherlock indicated. John was at Sherlock's side, and his focus was on Sherlock, as always. She could read his body language so easily. He stood almost at attention, hands clasped behind his back, eyes on Sherlock's face. She recognized the expression. She'd become familiar with it long before she met the man who inspired it: on the cusp of a smile, brow slightly furrowed, eyes lit with admiration and wonder. John had worn it whenever he talked to her about Sherlock, back when they'd both still believed he was dead. John's devotion to Sherlock was obvious to anyone who spent even a short time with the two of them. Even casual acquaintances seemed to leap to the simplistic conclusion that the two men must be lovers, a reaction that still confounded John. She smiled. If only life were that black and white. She could have dealt with a romantic rival. But this...

She had sent Sherlock a text two nights ago. Normally, he responded within an hour, but she had heard nothing at all. It had worried her, and she had nearly contacted John just to make sure Sherlock was all right. Somehow, she hadn't expected him to be quite as fit as he clearly was. His color was good in the photo, and he seemed to have put on some weight, just going by the angles of his face having softened a bit. John looked good, too, but his expression was what stopped her. It told her that he had fully engaged back into his old life with Sherlock. She wondered if Sherlock's sudden silence meant that he saw it, too.

It was no secret to her that Sherlock wanted John to stay with him, and that his insistence that John reconcile with her had been because he believed that was what John truly wanted and needed. But if that belief had changed, and if he now believed that John needed him instead, it would explain his silence. And John's.

It was always going to come down to John's decision, and it seemed that he had made it. She and Sherlock had never asked him to choose between them, not even in the beginning, but she knew that she had been competing with Sherlock's memory from the day she and John met. It was human nature to idealize loved ones who had died. Sherlock had grown to mythic proportions in John's memory, and she had accepted that. Then he had resurrected himself in such a bafflingly clumsy way that he had managed to tarnish his own halo, for a time. Until she had all but deified him with her attack, and her betrayal.

She knew Sherlock had not sabotaged her. He didn't need to. She'd done that quite handily on her own.

But Sherlock was overlooking something very important. He knew that she was still under threat from both Magnussen and Mycroft. Even if she were noble enough to back away, Mycroft would not allow it. She had not heard from Magnussen since that night, but she thought it was simply because he hadn't run across a need for her yet. It was possible that Mycroft had contacted Magnussen to activate his plan to make himself her only master. He'd told her that he fully intended to carry through with that part of their arrangement. Having one master instead of two was hardly comforting, particularly given what Mycroft would be like to serve. John had told her that he believed most of Sherlock's risky behavior was driven by his frustration over Mycroft's domineering attitude. She was not eager to find herself in a similar position.

But none of that mattered, not if John was lost to her. She refused to use the baby as a bargaining chip, in spite of Mycroft Holmes' vile recommendation. John had to make this decision with the both her and the baby in mind. And he needed to tell her where she stood. Now. She picked up her phone and sent another text.

S, please respond, or I will come to the flat and ask him myself. M.

Lestrade returned just after noon with Sergeant Donovan and their burglary suspect, Roland Bessimer. As Sherlock had predicted, Bessimer was an electronics consultant for the security firms hired by the victims or their building owners, with no criminal record, and feeling the strain of extraordinary expenses that had come up two months ago. Bessimer's twelve year old son had been diagnosed with cancer nine weeks ago, and the stolen goods were being sold to help meet the costs of treatment. Everything that had been stolen had also been sold immediately, and at prices below what an experienced thief would accept. Jewelry, paintings, and high end electronic items. The revenue barely made a dent in the expenses, but Lestrade could understand the desperation, if not excuse it. Bessimer had still been in possession of the jewelry taken in the last burglary, and his sick son was on the sofa in his living room. There was no satisfaction at all in this one.

Donovan seemed subdued, too. She'd kept glancing at him as they were driving back with their prisoner. After they had turned him over for processing, they walked back to their desks. At least, Greg did. Sally followed him into his office and closed the door behind her, then leaned against it.

"What's on your mind, Donovan?"

She seemed to be struggling with how to put whatever it was. She took a breath, and paused again. "Do you know who shot Sherlock Holmes?"

It wasn't at all what he'd been expecting, and it took him a moment to catch up. He frowned. "You know we don't have any suspects. Where's this coming from?"

She walked to the chair in front of his desk and sat down. "I think John has moved back in with him."

He shook his head, not denying what she said, just not able to see where this was headed. "'Course he did. When Sherlock was discharged, he needed help."

"Which he doesn't need now, obviously. Why is John still there?"

Greg sat back. "What makes you think he's still at Baker Street?"

She huffed. "They came in a cab together, and they left the same way." She held up a hand to ward off the comment he had started to offer. "No, there's more than that. I was talking to John when you and Sherlock were flitting around the scene. I asked him how Mary was, and it was like I flipped the psycho switch. For a second there, I thought he was going to hit me. It was a perfectly innocent, normal question to ask of a man who's got a pregnant wife at home, and he looked at me like I just took a shot at Sherlock myself. A few seconds later, he was back to normal. He smiled and said she was fine. And he immediately walked away before I could ask anything else." She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "I find that suspicious as hell."

"When did you stop calling him 'Freak'?"

That startled her. She uncrossed her arms and looked away. "It was getting to be an old joke, and I... I don't actually think he's a freak anymore."

Greg nodded. "Good. You might find it a lot easier to deal with him now. And no, I don't know who shot him. He doesn't remember, and there are no leads. What does that have to do with where John may or may not be living?"

Her eyes narrowed. "You don't find it strange that John hasn't been banging your door down demanding that you find the shooter? Or Sherlock's brother, for that matter? I think it's damned odd."

Greg's honest opinion was that both John and Mycroft knew who had shot Sherlock, and that they also knew he was no longer a threat. How that was accomplished, Greg chose not to consider too closely, but every unidentified body that washed up in the Thames made him wonder if that might be the one. "I would say that with a brother in MI-6, the chances of Sherlock's shooter going unpunished would be pretty much nonexistent. That's totally off the record, by the way. We worked the calls when Magnussen put up that reward for information, and nothing came of it. You need to let it drop."

She looked unconvinced. "You don't think it's odd that John left his wife to move in with Sherlock?"

"Oh for God's sake, he didn't leave his wife for Sherlock. If he's really still at Baker Street, there's a good reason. One that's not my business, or yours."

She crossed her arms again. "What if Mary is the one who shot him?"

He stared at her. "What?"

"Just hear me out. It's obvious to everyone but you, apparently, that there's a lot more to John Watson and Sherlock Holmes than being best mates. Mary met John when they both thought Sherlock was dead. And then he pops up again. She's certainly heard the rumors that they were a couple. Maybe she's even seen it herself. There might be a lot of people with plausible motives for killing Sherlock Holmes, but there's no fury like a woman fighting for the man she loves."

It would explain why John was still living with Sherlock, a fact that Greg had been aware of, but had kept to himself. He had just assumed that Sherlock still needed him. Maybe PTSD? Wouldn't be hard to understand, after all. And John would have practical experience to help him. It would be nearly impossible to convince him to go to a professional. To think that it might have been Mary who shot Sherlock... no. "If it was anybody but Mary and John, I might give it some thought. But you've got this wrong. You need to keep this whole theory to yourself. If you really want to see John go psycho on you, just mention that you think his wife is a killer." The idea was so ridiculous that it made him smile.

Sally's expression hardened. "I'm happy to be so entertaining."

He sobered. "I don't think it's funny. It's just not possible for Mary to have been the one who shot him. Have you met her? She's no killer, Donovan. And rein in your imagination about John and Sherlock, too. Talk about old jokes." He snorted.

She stood up and went stiffly to the door. "Thanks for your time." She jerked the door open and left it standing ajar as she walked to her desk and dropped into the chair.

Greg knew that posture. She was angry. He hadn't meant to make light of her theory, but it was beyond even qualifying as a stretch. He was surprised that she had even tried to talk to John, knowing how he felt about her and Anderson. It was no wonder he'd been so touchy. She would realize that, after she cooled down.

Sherlock had removed his coat and his jacket and donned his blue dressing gown as soon as they walked into the flat. Case closed. Now began the wait for the next one. He stretched out on the sofa, and started scrolling through text messages on his phone.

John hung his own jacket on the back of a kitchen chair. "I'm making tea," he called out to Sherlock as he turned on the kettle.

A moment later, he poked his head into the living room to see why he hadn't received a reply. Sherlock was staring at his phone. "Sherlock, do you want any tea?"

"Yes," Sherlock said absently, not looking at him. "Fine."

John stared at him for a moment, frowning. "You okay?"

"I'll be out in a moment." Still staring at the phone.

John gave up and returned to his task. A moment later, Sherlock came into the kitchen. John heard him remove the jacket from the chair and put it on the peg next to the door, then pull out the chair and sit down. When he turned around, he noticed that Sherlock had removed his dressing gown. He was sitting at the table in his white shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows like a man about to take on a physical task.

Sherlock looked up at him. "John, why are you still here?"

John didn't try to hide his bemusement. "Well, where did that come from?"

Sherlock frowned. "You haven't even mentioned Mary's name in two weeks. I've been fine for more than a month now. Why haven't you made arrangements to go home?"

John leaned back against the counter and folded his arms. "It was never me who mentioned her."

That seemed to surprise him. John could see him searching his memory to check the validity of that statement. John didn't wait for him to finish mentally replaying the past three months. "Sherlock, I'm here because I'm still trying to decide whether I can go back to my wife. I thought that was our agreement. What's the sudden rush?"

"I would imagine that Mary is becoming concerned about your silence. I could send her a message. Or you could. Just to ease her mind." He was looking at the wall behind John.

"Did she give you some sort of deadline? Is that what started this?"

Sherlock met his gaze. "There's a limit to how long this arrangement can continue before you're forced to make a decision."

He crossed his arms. "Forced? By what?"

Sherlock gave him a long look. "I believe there's an obvious answer to that question. You have a pregnant wife who is due in about six weeks. It's time to go home, John."

"I am home."

Sherlock's eyes flashed pain for just an instant. "Baker Street is an address. Your home is with Mary. Are you planning to just show up for the delivery and expect her to hand over the baby?"

He clenched his jaw until it hurt. "I'm very much aware of the deadline, and so is she. She's counting on it, in fact."

"How do you know what she thinks? When was the last time you talked to her?"

John leveled his gaze. "You remember. It was in this flat, just before the medics spent twenty minutes trying to get your heart working again."

Sherlock started to say something, then stopped. He took a deep breath. "You have to make a decision. Put all that aside, and look at what matters. You're running out of time."

John dropped his hands to his side, flexing his fingers in frustration. "Everything matters. And we can't all disappear into our mind palace for an hour and come up with the perfect solution to every problem. It takes the rest of us a lot of time and effort. I have been thinking about it, Sherlock. A lot. Your boot on my backside isn't going to make the process move any faster. In fact, I've made more progress over the past two weeks precisely because you stopped bringing it up. What changed?"

"My mind palace makes mistakes, too." Sherlock said it so quietly that he might have been talking to himself.

It was a comment that begged for a smart ass response, except for the way it had been delivered. "What were you wrong about?"

He shook his head, looking off to John's right. "It's a long list." A moment passed, and he looked directly at John. "Mary is going to run out of patience unless one of us gets in touch with her. I think that person should be you, but I will convey a message if you prefer. Let me know." He got up from the table, and went back to the living room.

The kettle was boiling, and John turned it off. What he really wanted was a tall glass of Scotch. He walked out to the living room, and stopped. Sherlock was sitting at the desk with his laptop open in front of him, but he wasn't looking at it. His elbows rested on the desk and his hands were in the familiar prayer position, fingers pressed to his lips. He was staring straight ahead. "Sherlock?" He didn't expect an answer, and he didn't get one. He glanced at his watch. Two o'clock. He walked over to the desk, just to verify his observation. Waved a hand in front of Sherlock, and nodded. He would check back in a couple of hours.

Back in the kitchen, he finished the tea, and put one in front of Sherlock out of habit. It would be cold long before he came back with whatever he was working on in his 'not infallible' mind palace.

That admission had been a surprise. It was true, of course, but John wondered what had made him say it. Evidence of Sherlock's fallibility was painfully clear in his refusal to see the obvious with Mary, but Sherlock never saw the flaws in the people he loved. He forgave them for failing him, even as he crucified himself for the same thing. Sherlock loved Mary, therefore she could not have meant to hurt him, or John. His faith in her seemed unshakable, and John knew making him see the truth would be difficult, if not impossible.

The past two weeks had been so close to the life they'd had before Sherlock had disappeared for two years that John had not wanted to think beyond it. Maybe Sherlock had felt it too, and that was why he had stopped nagging him about Mary. That could be the 'mistake' his mind palace had made. Allowing himself this brief return to a life that was no longer possible.

He had not pushed Sherlock hard enough to get him to drop the blinders and take an honest look at what he was so carefully avoiding, but that had to change.

"If you want me to make a decision right now, you're bloody well going to listen to my side first."

There was no reaction from Sherlock, of course. John sat down in his chair to wait for his friend.

He had been avoiding his John room for the wrong reasons, he realized. A decision based on only the data he allowed into the equation was bound to be wrong. Everything mattered. He opened the door.

Sunlight. Faint scents of wood smoke, leather, gun oil. The waltz he had composed for their wedding, played on a cello, the arrangement more somber than his violin. John's chair. Mary sitting in it, dressed for dinner at the Landmark Hotel in those final few moments of peace before disaster joined them at the table with a fake moustache and a bottle of champagne.

"You have to let him go, Sherlock. You can't give him what he needs."

"Neither can you. Not without me. It's not a dilemma, Mary. John needs both of us. You knew that once, or claimed to."

She smiled. "So did you. But you're not sure anymore, are you? You wonder if you're a distraction. Part of the problem, not the solution."

"No."

"Yes, you do. If you had never come back, what do you think John would be doing right now? He wouldn't be torturing himself over his wife being an assassin who lied to him and nearly killed his friend because none of that would have happened. He wouldn't be struggling with this decision because it would not have been necessary. He'd be a happily married man with a wife he adores, and a baby on the way. Can you deny any of that?"

He could, actually. "What would John be doing right now if I had never left?"

"You think you have the answer to that, and you expect me to recite it for you. Well, it's not as obvious as you seem to believe, Sherlock. You think he and I would never have met. You think it's only because he was still in so much pain a year after your death that he reached out to me. You know that's not the whole truth. He may not have met me, but he would have found a woman eventually. John's not like you. He needs the comfort of a physical relationship with a woman who loves him, and he would have found that. He loves you, Sherlock, but you would never have been enough."

"I never expected him to remain single. I told Mycroft that you and John getting married was the beginning of a new chapter, not the end."

"But you didn't believe it, even then." Mary had vanished, and Mycroft was standing at the window looking back at him. "You know you will have to share John with his wife, and his child. He will no longer be able to drop everything at a moment's notice and follow you. You've been demoted, Sherlock. From first place to third. Embrace the inevitable."

Sherlock joined him at the window, toe to toe. "Is that why you want her under your control? You think if she doles out John's time to me the way you dictate, that you'll finally control me, too?"

Mycroft smiled. "You really believe that, don't you? That everything I do is somehow related to you. Does it never occur to you that my motives might occasionally involve my own welfare? Are you truly so self-involved?"

Sherlock crossed his arms. "That's not a denial. It's not even an answer. You're avoiding the question, which only tells me that I'm right."

Mycroft's weary sigh was a tell. "Believe what you wish, Sherlock. That's what you do. You have never actually asked John what he wants, have you? You assume you know what's best, but at the same time, you acknowledge that you've been disastrously wrong more than once. I suggest you ask for the truth before you make another costly mistake."

Before Sherlock could respond, Mycroft turned back to the window and vanished.

"Sherlock?" John's voice coming from the door behind him. He turned.

John was leaning against the door. "You can't keep letting him do this to you. It's time to cut the cord."

"He may be a manipulative bastard, but he does have a point. I've never asked you what you want."

John blinked in confusion. "You know what I want."

"No. I don't," Sherlock said slowly. "I'm asking you to tell me."

John smiled. "Think about what you just said. I'm an avatar. All I can say is what you expect me to say. If you truly don't know what I want, the only answer you're going to get is that I don't know either."

Sherlock shook his head. "But that's not true. Avatars in my mind palace surprise me all the time. It's why you're here. To stimulate my subconscious to give me the answer. What do you want, John?"

"I want my life back."

Sherlock clenched his teeth. "But which life? You have to tell me, because I don't know."

John smiled. "Yes, you do." He turned and opened the door. "Time to do something about it." John left the room.

Sherlock walked to John's chair and settled into it. He would go back to the beginning. To the first day he had met John at Bart's. Replay it all, frame by frame. The answer was there. He just had to find it.

John gave up waiting for Sherlock to surface, and headed out to the kitchen. He was hungry, but he had more than satisfying his appetite in mind. Experience had shown that strong aromas sometimes drew Sherlock out of his mind palace. There was a pan of lasagna that Mrs. Hudson had tucked into the fridge with a note for John while they'd been out this morning. She always included a note about how to heat up the food she left for them, as if they would just sit and stare at it without instructions. He popped it into the oven and set the timer, as instructed. It took thirty minutes for the aroma to reach the living room, and another five for Sherlock to notice.

John had picked up a book to wait for either the oven timer, or Sherlock's return from his mind palace. He was barely two pages into it when Sherlock took a deep breath, and blinked. "John?"

"Welcome back." He closed the book and put in on the table next to his chair.

"What time is it?" He flexed his wrists and wiggled his fingers.

"About six. Dinner's almost ready."

Sherlock got up from the desk and moved to his chair facing John. "I have a question." But then he paused, squinting at some point over John's head.

John decided to wait him out. He'd spent almost four hours coming up with whatever he was about to say. Patience was called for.

Finally, Sherlock took a breath and locked eyes with John. "What do you want?"

John waited, then frowned. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"I've been telling you what you need to do, but I've never asked you what you want the final outcome to be. I thought it was time I asked."

John had been focused on the immediate present for months now. Keeping Sherlock alive, then getting him back on his feet. That mission was accomplished. Looking ahead was proving to be much harder. "That's not an easy question. I'll give it a shot, but only if you answer one for me first."

Sherlock gestured grandly. "Ask your question."

John took a deep breath. "Are you aware that this thing with Mary is the first time I've ever known you to ignore evidence? And that's not the question, by the way. It's a preamble."

"It sounds like a question."

"Why are you so hell bent on getting me to move back with Mary in spite of all the evidence against it?"

Sherlock huffed a sigh. "What evidence?"

"Seriously? Okay, let's start with the 'surgical' placement of the bullet. Remember, I was there when you fed that line to Mary, before she knew I was listening. I could read her reaction from thirty feet away, from the back, so I know you couldn't have missed it. She wasn't relieved. She didn't agree. She looked down at the floor. If it had been anybody else, you would have recognized that as a denial. But you wanted to believe it, so you did. I've never seen you like this, and I want to know why. Do you think that's what I want?"

"Do you want me to answer that?"

"I'm not finished. She brought a gun to meet with a man she knew could barely stand up. She could have outrun you, or pushed you down with one hand and stepped over you. But she brought a loaded automatic. If you hadn't put her face on the front of the building, what do you think she had planned?"

Sherlock's gaze narrowed. "You think she's lying to me."

He sat back in the chair and stared at the ceiling in exasperation. "For Christ's sake, Sherlock, she hasn't done anything but lie since I met her. When you were sitting exactly where you are right now, telling her your version of what happened, did you hear her agree with you even once? You said she called the ambulance, and I know that's not true. Mycroft sent that ambulance, and he saved your life. Mary just took credit for it."

Sherlock's hands tensed on the arms of the chair just as they had that night, but this time the pain wasn't physical. "How do you know that?"

"Mycroft told me, of course."

Sherlock barked a laugh. "And he's never been known to lie."

"Mary didn't call the ambulance, and it's easy enough to prove. Check Magnussen's phone records. You think she used his phone? There won't be a call to 999 that night. I would bet my life on it." He watched Sherlock shaking his head in a slow arc of disbelief. "You were right about one thing. She didn't want to kill you instantly. She needed you to be alive when I found you. She knew I wouldn't leave you to chase the shooter if you were still breathing, and she was right. I never gave it a thought. She left you alive to slow me down, and for no other reason." He was breathing hard, on the edge of control.

Sherlock watched him silently for a moment. "Okay. You think my judgment is unreliable because I care about her and want to believe the best, but yours is just as colored in the opposite direction. I think we can agree that I have far less emotional investment in the relationship, and that means far less distortion in my perspective. I may not be right about everything, but the odds are in my favor"

"I didn't invent the evidence, Sherlock. And you can't continue to ignore it."

Sherlock tipped his head and considered that. "Say you're right about her only caring that I lived long enough to let her escape. The 'surgery' theory was mine. You seem to think that not jumping on that and claiming it was true proves she's a liar, when it proves just the opposite. The same applies to her letting me think that she called the ambulance. I may be putting more faith in her than you are, but nothing you've said proves either of us right or wrong."

John had been prepared for a fight, not a draw. "Where does that leave us?"

"It leaves us exactly where we've been all along. We know that Mary left her old life behind five years before she ever met you. We know that she was there for you during a difficult time in your life that I caused, and she's been nothing but positive and supportive since I came back into your life. We know that it's hard for you to trust anyone, and the worst thing she could have done was to betray that trust. We-"

"No," John cut in, jabbing a finger in Sherlock's direction for emphasis. "The worst thing she could have done was try to kill you."

Sherlock sat back, almost lounging, fingers tapping lightly on the arms of the chair. "I didn't remember much about the shooting until recently. I remembered going to Magnussen's office, finding Janine on the floor, and going up the stairs. I remembered Mary turning around, and how I'd never been that surprised before in my life. I didn't believe she would shoot me. I actually told her she wouldn't, and then she pulled the trigger. I remember thinking she'd missed, and then I saw the blood. It didn't even hurt, at first."

John took a strained breath. "If this is supposed to make me feel forgiving, it's not working."

"I woke up one morning two weeks ago, and it was all there. Everything that happened after she shot me. The part that matters is that she was sorry, John. Before I blacked out, she said she was sorry, and she was crying. She meant it. That buried memory is why I've been so sure all along that she wasn't trying to kill me. I just didn't know it. She would rather have done almost anything else, if there had been an alternative."

John was suddenly too tired to think. He pinched the bridge of his nose with two fingers and closed his eyes for a moment. Then he leaned back in his chair. "Let me cut through it all for you. I know I have to go back to her because of the baby. But no matter how right I know that is, it pisses me off because of everything else. I have to make her believe that I've forgiven her so she feels safe in staying with me, and that pisses me off even more. She's won, Sherlock. Everything that has happened, or is about to, is all part of her plan, no matter what you want to believe."

"But none of it would have happened if I'd never come back."

He couldn't argue with that. "Probably not. For now, at least. She would have killed Magnussen, and her secret would have been safe until the next person came along with a similar threat. Secrets like that don't stay secrets forever. And Sherlock?" He waited for eye contact. "Don't ever think for one second that I would have wanted that. No matter what happens, I wanted you back. You know that."

Sherlock held his gaze. "This is a hell of a price to pay for it."

He couldn't argue with that, either. "And I would do it again. All of it."

Sherlock pressed his lips tightly and nodded, then took a deep breath. "When are you going to contact her? That's actually what started this. She sent me a text that said unless she gets an answer, she's going to come here to ask you personally."

"I need a little more time. You can let her know that we'll meet here on New Year's Eve. After all this, another three weeks doesn't seem like too much to ask."

Sherlock looked at him. "You do love her. And the baby. This could still work out."

John smiled. One hurdle at a time.

The oven timer dinged. John got up and went out to the kitchen.

A brief fill-in article in the Daily Mail about the still-unsolved attack on Sherlock gave Lestrade an opening to pay a visit to Baker Street. He chose the dinner hour not just because he'd probably catch Sherlock at home, but to see if John was still living there. Donovan's theory had been nagging at him. It wasn't that he believed for a moment that Mary was involved in the shooting, but if John were still living at the flat with Sherlock, it did raise a question or two.

John answered the door. "Hey, Greg. Come on up." He trotted up the stairs and turned left into the kitchen.

Sherlock got up from the table as Greg came through the door behind John. They had obviously been in the middle of eating dinner. "Lestrade. What's on your mind?"

Greg feigned surprise that was meant to fool no one. "What? I can't just drop by?" Pause. "Yeah, okay. I got a request for a follow up, so I came by to see if you've managed to remember anything about who shot you." He was looking at Sherlock when he said this, but he was watching John with his peripheral vision. The flinch was very quick, tightly controlled, and unmistakable.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed for a moment. "Request from whom?"

John picked up their cups and turned to the kettle on the counter. He stayed that way, with his back to Greg, fiddling with spoons and tea boxes.

Greg looked wearily skyward. "Reporters. You know. Busy work. Daily Mail ran an article this morning. Did you see it?"

Sherlock's chin lifted, deducing him very briefly. "Sorry, no. Still can't help you."

Not a denial, he noticed. "Okay, then. I'll tell them to piss off." He took a breath. "So, John. How's Mary doing? I remember when my wife was expecting." He rolled his eyes dramatically. "Takes a saint to stay positive some days."

John had gone completely still at the mention of his wife's name, and he didn't turn around. "She's good, Greg. Thanks for asking."

Sherlock was giving him a look he recognized too well. He was being deduced from stem to stern this time. Greg smiled in response. "We picked up the burglar this morning. Thought you'd like to know. He fit your description to the last detail. You haven't lost your touch." His smile was beginning to feel stiff.

Sherlock didn't smile back. "So why don't you seem as happy as you should be? A string of burglaries closed, and you look like somebody poisoned your dog."

Greg shrugged. "Those expenses he was stealing to cover? His kid's got cancer. It's one of those times I almost wish we hadn't figured it out."

"You mean, you wish I hadn't figured it out. Sorry. You have to give me a hint next time, if you want me to play idiot."

This wasn't the direction he'd meant this to go. "You know I didn't mean it that way. It's just that sometimes justice doesn't feel very...just." He nodded at the table. "Sorry to interrupt your dinner. I'll let you get back to it. Have a good evening."

"Yeah, you too," John called over his shoulder as Greg was heading out the door.

Sherlock's gaze had narrowed again, Greg saw from the corner of his eye. He also noticed that the kitchen door and then the living room door closed before he reached the landing.

So, clearly, John was living at Baker Street with Sherlock who, equally clearly, did not need him for his medical expertise. He was racking his brain for a reason that would explain why John would not be living with his wife that didn't involve choosing Sherlock over her. There were two, both of which conflicted with everything he thought he knew. One was that Mary had actually shot Sherlock. The other, that Sherlock's near death had made John realize that Sherlock was more important to him than his wife. His pregnant wife.

The implications, either way, were disturbing. He sincerely wished Donovan had kept her suspicions to herself.

Sherlock closed both doors. "We just ran out of time."

John turned from the sink and blew out a heavy breath. "Donovan."

Sherlock frowned. "What about her?"

John sat down at the table. "She asked me about Mary at the crime scene, and it caught me off guard. I didn't think it showed, but I guess she's still a very observant pain in the arse."

"She won't give up." Sherlock joined him at the table. "We can't wait until the end of the year now. I'm not sure we can wait until Christmas. The longer you stay here, the more you risk drawing Lestrade into it. He's already suspicious. He was watching you the whole time he was here."

John agreed. "We'll do it at your parents' Christmas dinner. You can invite Mary, and tell her that we'll talk then. I'll plan to go home with her from there." The finality of it made his chest ache.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable. "Good. That's settled then." He stood up and took his barely touched plate of food to the sink and rinsed it all down the drain. "I'll go send that text." A moment later, he went to his room, and closed the door.

John had never felt so fucking helpless in his life. No matter what he did now, he was going to hurt Sherlock and Mary. It wasn't even an either/or proposition. He was already hurting them, and it wasn't going to get better anytime soon.

Mary would not question his forgiveness, even after five and a half months of silence. They had spent just one month together as husband and wife, and parents-to-be. Barely enough time to settle into either role, but long enough to realize that the baby would forever trump everything else. Whether John would ever be able to feel the way he had that first month was a question he couldn't begin to answer.

Sherlock finally got the decision he'd been pressing for, but knowing the end date clearly didn't make it any easier. John suspected that Sherlock had suddenly started trying to push him out precisely because he had realized how much he wanted him to stay. They both had been happier these past two weeks than either had been in a long time. It was almost as if the past three years had never happened. And the familiarity of living here again was becoming dangerously comfortable. Sherlock was right to force an end to it.

There really was no going back.

End of Chapter 10