All things must rest. All of nature must bow its head to exhaustion.

Jim was no exception. He was so very worn down, like a shoe worn too long, clinging desperately to its tacks. It was a simple shift; he bowed slightly, leaning forward half an inch. Moran had only left for a moment, the first time he hadn't been chewing caffeine pills and keeping watch with his boss. He saw that whatever the boss dreamed has changed him, struck him hard against the kidneys. Still able to fight, but hurting.

The loss of his eye was not taken well.

The boss must stay awake, which meant Moran must stay awake and attend. He did, but for a short time when he did no more than look away. When he returned, not twenty seconds later, his boss was dead. He would kill the men he sat at watch and stood looking at the body of his boss, eyes wide, shocked. The boss, Jim, had cried before he died. The tears were drying on his face.

Sebastian sat and stayed watch over his dead boss, still sitting in his chair and getting stiller.

He didn't know what to do.

*****

Before Sebastian returned. Before he sat and watched, a wake for a man that would receive no other mourning, Jim had a dream. He sat, back against a low wall between Davis and Murray whose face was

(what is that what is that its cutting me)

cheery and happy, covered in dust, just like the rest of them, working his gum round and round his mouth. Jim was always in a hurry here, although often he hurry upped and waited. But it was okay, doable, as long as he stayed ready and had good men to

(what is that what is that it's too big it's too big in his chest pressing up its going to break his ribs from the inside out what is that)

talk with a little, even if it was something as dumb as comparing Days of Our Lives and Coronation Street.

"Medic!" a voice shouted over the radio and

(stop stop just please stop hurting if I could id take it away id take it myself just stop) Jim was screaming he couldn't stop screaming. And Jim was burning, he was bursting and it wouldn't stop. People shouldn't feel this way as he clawed at his face, at his flak jacket over his heart; this was not what people should feel like. He panted, teeth bared, at the unforgiving sun staring down and he hated it, which was new because the hate was not merely distaste at the disgusting, boring regularity of the world, but he felt pained, wounded inside himself like he'd been cut up and emptied out. It was raggedy inside, rough edged and aching, it was insufferable. He clawed as if he could scrape out the hole in his chest, breaking him in, making him bigger on the inside and he was not meant to be that big because it was crawling up inside him like corrosive mold and it was touching his mind, his wonderful razor sharp mind and it was eating it.

(what is that)

(what is it doing to me)

Jim turned to Murray who was still on a bit of a high from the letter he got from his fiancé,

(happiness pride for you my friend that youve found and conquered that youre so pleased with yourself brother comrade mate soldier shoulder on shoulder to shoulder its burning me up burning my heart out I hope you live forever how many wont how many fiancés will cry soon if it meant you marrying hale and healthy I would too big to fit youre breaking my rib why do my eyes feel as heavy and the stone in my face why am I smiling without being told)

Jim's head burst open, burning and he couldn't hold it. It was too big and it hurt. Bill nodded sobering and hefted his kit up; no one was supposed to shoot down medics. Well, theoretically. But they did which was a cheap trick since medics had carved into their brains

(pressure I need pressure here now please stop bleeding you look scared and your mum will cry)

to heal and protect . They would run into danger sometimes if there's a man there.

Jim stumbled.

"Watson! You good?" Murray shouted over his shoulder.

"Fine. All fine." Cover fire and that was good shooting people was good he knew that. His eyes, they catch the glint of dust and bullets as fire was opened. The two of them ran and Jim knelt by the soldier down and hefted him up and Jim clawed at his flack vest over his heart because this was too much. His nails were breaking and his brain was bursting and there was wetness on his face, he threw his head back and howled until he can't. Until his voice was a low, low sound scratching against itself, like wind through high grass.

And he was crying.

He was crying, head thrown back, staring at the Afghani sky like some saint in the stunned, shattered moment of epiphany. Seeing everything and nothing at once. Vistas incomprehensible, darkness that he could not comprehend with its low and lowing paralysis, white hot burning swirls of light leaping across mountains. The whole great triumph of the human condition, the glory of humanity, the conception of the worth of every human soul, empathy, burst into him like a mortar blast and shattered him, ruined him. Left him on his back, in the dust and blood, the whole world shocked and stunned by the weight of this revelation. He laid there spread eagle, staring without blinking, he didn't have the strength to blink, until the man came, the good man came, the good captain.

It hurt, all those emotions hurt, caring hurt, it ripped through him, compassion and mercy and pity and they hurt, blasting through him - a speed train covered in sandpaper. He was bleeding out inside from the feelings. He looked at the good man, just looked at him.

"Numbers can't stop bullets Jimmy," he said, the sun catching and glinting against his golden hair, the buttons of his uniform. "And cruelty is no match for love. How did you like it? The taste, the brush against your brain."

When he looked at the good man it was in horror. If that was a brush, if that was a brush… His face had cracked open and now he was just a man with a big brain. A man who was currently being Hunted.

Blood and sand stuck to the side of Jim face, wet in places and dry and peeling like the skin of a snake in others.

Jim gasped a small precise gasp, like a scale of beryl on his tongue, as the Browning snugged into his ribs.

"Please," he begged. "Please. Mercy. Be merciful and destroy me." He clung to the leg closest to him, it burnt him dark and fast, but he didn't care, he was too broken to care. He remembered this man's name was John, "John," he begged, wide eyes staring. "Good John, beloved John. Have mercy, please, please, please, destroy me."

John leaned very close to his ear, close enough to bite it off and whispered to Jim, "I dedicate this heart to Sherlock Holmes."

***

Sherlock stood, a black cut out against the bright sunlight coming through the window. John looked at him, the shape of him and smiled. He was groggy, not quite all awake yet, and when he stretched on the sofa the afghan Sherlock must have thrown over him slipped.

"I made you tea," Sherlock said.

John smiled, pleased because Sherlock never made him tea and scratched at his ear a little. "You, make me tea?"

Sherlock turned, and now that John's eyes were better adjusted he could see Sherlock's face creased in thought, could see the tea set on the coffee table, see the Strad held gently in one hand and the bow held up, poised in the other like a rapier. "I am capable John. I had to make it for myself before you came along."

"It worked, just like you said, brilliant as ever," John took the cup, set the edge against his lip and blew gently so the steam bowed and fled.

"Are you alright?"

"Hmm?" John said, in the midst of a sip.

"Are you alright? Did he hurt you again?" the light coming through the windows was bright and lit up the specks of dust into tiny momentary suns.

"No Sherlock, I'm alright. It worked; it was too much for him. He didn't hurt me."

There was a sudden easing across his pale face and he set his violin under his chin. "I have been thinking a great deal John. A great deal. You will do two things for me. Later today will you go and speak to my brother. There are some things he'll wish to speak to you about, I have things I need to do as well, but I know I can trust you to stay with him until I come get you. Second you will tell me something about Moriarty."

"Certainly Sherlock, whatever you need."

"Good. Second, will you look angry for me, angry and also a little shocked? Mostly shocked. If you please," he ran his fingertips along the strings so they let out a soft hushed gasp nearly muted by the sound of the refrigerator humming in the kitchen and their breathing.

"I guess, why do you ask?"

"Because I'm going to start playing the violin."

"What does that-?"

Sherlock interrupted with a long low scrape at his violin so it hummed in the air before playing. It was a quick song, John didn't know that much about violins, but he knew it was a piece that took skill. It was beautiful and fast and it made John watch, watch and watch Sherlock twist his wrist and make the violin sing for him. He nearly missed Mrs. Hudson calling out.

"John dear, that's beautiful, it sounds just like a real vio-"

Sherlock froze, his eyes jerked up as Mrs. Hudson stood in the door way, stared with an open mouth, her face stuck in shock, Sherlock's own face was wide open and vulnerable every inch the little boy lost. "Mrs. Hudson…" he jerked and set his instrument aside as he took long quick steps to the door so he could catch her before she sagged down a little. She didn't quite faint but she looked close to it.

"Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. Bless my soul."

"Yes Mrs. Hudson, yes it's me. It's me I'm back."

"What? I don't… Bring me to a chair dear bring me a seat."

***

"Moriarty threatened to kill you," Sherlock said kneeling, actually kneeling on the ground, beside Mrs. Hudson with one of her lovely soft hands between his own. "Several of the people I… cared about in fact. If I didn't," Sherlock looked away quickly hesitantly and John immediately recognized it as a sham, but only because he knew Sherlock so well, it was very, very good. "Do what he said, he would have his people kill you. So I faked my death, took him down with me and started to dismantle his organization. I had to do something, I couldn't lose the people who…"

Mrs. Hudson laid one hand on top of his curls, "Oh dear, you poor dear. What have you been doing these three years?"

John stood in the kitchen, staring at the kettle and listening quietly.

"John has not done well," she whispered to Sherlock and John listened. "He's changed, I worry about him. I don't like to be alone with him. Not that I thought he'd do anything to hurt me. It's just- It must have been a shock for you to see him so different. But never you worry. Don't you push him away. He's taken care of me. He's kept the house safe while you've been away. I've never had so much of an ounce of trouble. You just take care of him, he cares for you awfully."

"I know Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock's voice was soft, incredibly gentle. "But he's John. He's still John and I'll never be without him again if I can help it. He was very angry when I came back. I thought he wouldn't forgive me. But he's John, of course he did, and I'm never going to abuse that trust. I couldn't bear it."

"Tea's ready," John said, carrying the tray slowly and carefully.

"It's nice to have you back Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson put her arms around him. "It's just so very nice. I just don't know what to do having you back, the flat's just stopped smelling of decomposition."