Chapter: 10/14
Chapter Warnings: EXCESSIVE HUGGING. If you were to take a shot every time people hugged, you would be dead by the end of this chapter. So yeah, don't do it. Also: mentions of drugging and kidnapping.
Additional Notes: First chapter post-Reichenbach. A moment of silence for your grief. But, happy things now, IT'S MY BIRTHDAY TODAY :) Have some cyber-cake on my behalf. Or real cake. I don't care; do what you want, babes. Last thing: Longest chapter so far. Holy smokes.
Thanks To: TPTB, for giving us a third series to look forward to. And KT, forever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and ever and...


(Thursday, January 26th; Week 19 continued)

John stares up at him from the bed, and the most frightening thing about it is the lack of recognition in his eyes.

"Mycroft?" Sherlock questions, and it is a strangled sound as he holds himself back stiffly from the edge of the bed. It was all he could do not to assault the nurses who tried to get in his way in the mad dash from taxi to hospital room. John would have frowned on the savage way he cut them all down with his tongue alone, but he cannot bring himself to care in the slightest. Another thing John would fault him for. He again cannot care, because John is abruptly in front of him, blinking and breathing and alive, and that, that is all that matters. But foreign eyes, sleepy eyes - he had not expected this. "Was he drugged when you found him?"

"Yes, Sher -"

A bitter upsurge of anger rises, acidic and sharp, at the back of his throat, and he nearly growls his next words. "What sort of drugs? Narcotics? Lasting effects? Possible dos-"

"Sherlock, he's going to be fine," Mycroft enunciates, a slight divot in between his eyes as he notes Sherlock's agitation. "The doctors have assured me that he-"

"Oh, you of all people know the inadequacies of the general hospital staff."

"-will be his regular self following some well deserved rest, which you would be due not to interrupt," he continues pointedly, and Sherlock notes with private, fleeting pleasure the way in which his fingers clench around his umbrella stem on the last word. Anxiousness, however, again takes its place, filtering in when the silence of the room can be filled with nothing else. He swallows the feeling down, focuses calm eyes on his brother.

"How long?"

Mycroft is already examining his pocket watch, peering at the small hands before snapping it shut. "The average adult male requires seven to eight hours of sleep in order to be fully rested, Sherlock. Do with that information what you will." With that, he stands and regards the man in the bed with a keen eye before turning that inspecting gaze to Sherlock. Unused to being subjected to his own assertive stares, he bristles under the weight of it, yet does nothing but grind his teeth.

The enmity between them was not something he dwelled upon often. He knew that Mycroft, his elder, had been a prick from the moment of their first meeting on the day of his birth, and that was that. And it is humiliating to request his help; irritating in the sense that he who has always had the one-up will again have something to dangle over his head. Sherlock, as his beck and call like a dog.

But more than once, he has not abused his power, and has rather used it to help his brother. And though things do not immediately change, and probably (mostly, definitely, he'll think later, shuddering with contempt at the thought) never will, for once he bears the brunt of that knowing smirk and comes out of it not with an even deeper sense of hatred, but with one of gratitude.

He dips his head, and it is all Mycroft needs to send his stare once fleetingly back to John before departing the room.

Sherlock does not spare a moment - seconds after Mycroft's retreating footsteps have faded from earshot, he is at John's side on the bed, sitting gingerly down and cupping a hand around his stomach while the other one methodically checks and rechecks John's vitals. The eyes remain unsettlingly hazy and unfocused, but his fingers feel the reassuring beat of a pulse under his wrists, corroborated by the machines at his side, and his breathing is deep and even. He flits over various parts of John's face, wonders why he seems so little damaged by his ordeal. When, after moments of silence and the comforting rasp of Sherlock's fingers against his cheek and thumbing through his hair, he appears to sleep as peacefully as he would have done on any normal day.

He finds it unbearable; waiting for John to awaken like this. Can hardly stand that the key to finding out whoever stole him from Sherlock and caused him so much unnecessary anxiety and fear and rage, no matter the final consequences, lies locked behind John's closed lids. He wants to pry it open; to shake John awake and pour out the contents of his mind. Strip him bare and lay everything out so that he can make this person pay, and so that he can make everything okay again. Because even he remembers quick, passing moments; sneaking thoughts of hazy wakefulness, where he felt the genuine stab of uncertainty that anything could ever possibly be okay again.

John has been kidnapped before in the past. Never before when it mattered so much that Sherlock keep him safe. It had always come with that sickly sensation of falling, but Sherlock had always been there to put an end to it. Now, there had been a powerlessness to the whole situation - a weakness. And then, the other most important fact of all, was that John had never needed to come home and not be in the hands of criminals more than he did in the here and now, where Sherlock was nineteen weeks along in a pregnancy he was very much a part of, and which Sherlock would have been very, very… uncomfortable with taking on alone.

He rests there for interminable ages, thumb softly stroking across his wrists or his face or any new place that Sherlock suddenly remembers he hadn't been able to touch for a day.

"How is he?"

Sherlock's head turns imperceptibly. His eyes don't leave the deeply-breathing form on the bed. "Fine."

There's the soft press of another body next to him, the thin hospital mattress dipping further down, and then the more insistent press of a container into his hands. His eyes finally drop to see where Harry's hands are gently encouraging him to accept a clear plastic box, where a soggy-looking hospital sandwich stares dolefully up at him. His turns a skeptical eye on Harry. "You cannot expect me to eat this."

She crosses her arms. "I'll expect it and I'll make you do it. John'd have my head if he knew you were wasting your time pining away and not getting any food in you."

Truth be told, his stomach has been tugging at his insides rather insistently, now that the adrenaline and focus had worn off, but he still casts a look of distaste at the pitiful box. "I'm not exactly certain whether or not this classifies as food," he grouses, but lifts the lid anyway.

Harry looks pleased, and takes out her own lunch, pausing to give her brother a quick once-over. "I'm glad… I'm glad he's back." Sherlock doesn't point out that certain things went without saying, instead debating on how best to avoid dripping onto his coat. She presses on regardless, fiddling with her wrap but doing little to follow her own example. "We never got on; he's told you that. Not since the drinking, and - and Clara, yeah, but we always fought as kids, too. Hated him cause he was the favorite. So perfect and nice all the time; just the best person, really. And I couldn't ever be that. But I don't know… I don't know what I'd do if I lost him. Johnny always tried, even when I pushed him away. He's the only one who tried. And when I thought I'd fucked that up…" she trails off, bites her lip, then begins anew. "It always takes losing something to realize that it's important."

Sherlock looks at her sharply. "Not always."

She cocks an eyebrow at him. "How so?"

I never believed John was unimportant. I never believed the baby was unimportant. I haven't lost either of them, and I don't intend to. But things like the work… I appreciate it while it's there, yes, but it is only when I don't have it that it seems so much more vital. The thoughts on his most basic, most necessary things, are left private, even as it becomes infinitely more clear how his life has been organizing itself around him, and that he - he of all people - has not taken the time to notice the change."The truly important things are obvious to us from the moment they enter our lives. Only things taken for granted need losing before their importance becomes clear," he says slowly.

"Like breathing," Harry cuts in. It's his turn to arch an eyebrow, and she pushes on. "It's the first thing we do, and then from then on, we don't even think about it. It's natural. But then, when we stop - when you hold your breath, and you feel how much your whole body just needs new air - that's when you realize what it really means to you. I guess we do realize that some other things are important. I don't like to think I took Johnny for granted, but I guess -"

"You did," Sherlock says, and though the tone is cold, there's also something hurt, in the air he projects as he faces her with hard eyes. She meets his gaze, apprehension in her deep blue eyes, but does not look away. "John was always there for you, when most people would have - should have - given up. And you have thrown it in his face and left him there many times. You needed him like you needed breathing, but you have to need him more. For him, and for you."

"He hurt me, too, you know. I wasn't alone in this."

"And I catch murderers for a living, but I don't murder them for what they've done." The comparison is hardly related, but as she blinks, he thinks it may have done the trick. "Do his own shortcomings give you the right to hurt him back, or will you rise above it?"

There's an unbearable space of time where her jaws works uncertainly, but Harry has begun to learn the merits of silence, too, and she gives a wordless, but strong, and definite; so strong and definite that Sherlock knows things have begun to change, nod.

"More than breathing," she whispers at last, when they've been sitting in silence for a long while, the steady reassurances of the heart rate monitors and blipping lights the only movement or sounds in the room. Sherlock looks over, and catches on her face the softest - and one of the most radiant - smile Harry has ever sported. He cannot suppress his own quiet grin at the sight, and turns to John to hide his face.

He's staring up at them, bleary eyes attempting to focus. "Sh'lock thinks breathing's boring," John slurs, struggling to emerge into wakefulness.

The grin on Sherlock's face stretches impossibly farther at his words. "Because it is," he says simply, and leans over to brush his lips over the creases in John's forehead. He inhales, nose buried in his hair; realizes that if he's breathing in John his stance on the matter might change.

"How are you feeling, Johnny?" asks Harry from behind him, nervously twisting her hands in her lap.

He blinks at the sound of her voice, and Sherlock can hear the sluggish reasoning going on behind his creased forehead. "Fine, Harry. Harry? You're… here?"

She opens her mouth, but Sherlock swoops in to answer instead. "Sleep, John," he murmurs, again mouthing over his face - soft, gentle caresses of his lips, so that John sinks into their warmth with a sigh.

"Later…" he mumbles, trailing off into unintelligible sounds, and then, with a last, "M'kay," he drifts off once more. With a last tender brush against the side of his nose, Sherlock straightens, pausing for an uncertain moment before he tugs at the sheets around John and pulls them more tightly around his sleeping form, like he remembers Mummy used to do when he was sick. John may not be sick, but he recalls the feeling of…safety, warmth, that came from being cocooned in such a way. It fended off the fever dreams, and Sherlock hopes it will keep John safe from nightmares. Ludicrous, perhaps, but anything for his recovery. Anything for John.

When he turns at last, Harry is looking at him incredulously. "All you've wanted is for him to wake up, and you tell him to go back to sleep? Don't you want to start questioning him, get the baddies who did this, all that stuff?"

"On a regular day, the adult male needs seven to eight hours of sleep," he recalls with a huff. "I'd expect his experience does not classify as regular, so -"

"You, the non-sleeping machine…you're letting him sleep more. That is so -" Harry wrinkles her nose. "Cute."

"The information I need to progress will be retained more easily from a well-rested mind," Sherlock explains haughtily, but Harry continues to grin at him.

"Still adorable."

"I am not adorable, Harriet, -"

"Oh, and you're going to be one hell of a father."

He stops short of his protests. Peers down at her, slightly baffled. "I - what?"

She smirks. "Just take the compliment, sunshine," she says, a teasing glint in her eye. It softens, and she takes a deep breath before beginning, "You know - you're not…Sherlock, you…Thanks," she finishes lamely, and Sherlock observes how she seems to be warring with herself over her words. He cocks his head, waiting, expectant. True to form, she bucks up her Watson courage, and meets his gaze again. She gives a rueful shake of her head. "I came here expecting John to help me. But so far - it's been you. I never thought… never thought you could be kind enough to help me. But he was right. Johnny was right." She surveys him once, assessing his form, before she inhales and steps back, smoothing down her coat pockets. "I actually have some… business to take care of in the city. Text me when he wakes up, yeah?"

He nods, still taken aback, and before she can leave he calls out. "What was John right about?"

Reaching the door, she stops, looks over her shoulder and throws him another one of those quiet, radiant smiles. "There's good in you yet, Sherlock Holmes." With a small wave of her hand, she shuts the door behind her and is gone.

"She's right, you know," comes the tired voice, and Sherlock is rounding on him again with a roll of his eyes, before he can dwell any longer on Harry's statement.

"Sleeping, John. Why are you not doing it?"

His eyes squeeze shut. "Talking."

Sherlock's face goes serious. "She's gone, I'll stop now."

"No, no…keep. Keep talking. Miss your voice. Wa-want to hear it."

Sherlock fiddles with the blinds on the opposite side of the room, pulling them down and obscuring the sun. He settles into the row of seats beside the bed, looking with earnest into John's face. "What do you want me to talk about?"

"Ever'thing."

Sherlock smirks. "That will take an awfully long time to say."

Sherlock's almost entirely positive that if John was fully in command of his faculties he'd be sporting a glare, and with his own amused smile he leans back. His back twinges in protest as he shifts, attempting to get comfortable on the thin cushions. But it's a small price to pay, as he sees John relax against his own pillows and give a gentle, dreamy tilt of his lips as Sherlock begins to speak.

He has no idea what he says, no idea how long he speaks - he just watches John, his gaze in its constant vigilance unable to look away. But John is soon slipping away, and it is not long before he unexpectedly follows, finally succumbing - because now, it is okay to do so. The room, with its beeping and buzzing, is filled with a reassuring noise, and the bed is filled with the reassuring form of John, and there is no need not to fall asleep in the reassurance that all is as it should be.


Sherlock wakes, briefly, to the ghosting exhale of warm air across his cheek, and the sensation of strong arms gathering him towards a body; folding him up until he is nestled in their warmth.

Like wings, he thinks vaguely, as the soft down settles around him, and before he can ponder it more he is buffered away again into the night, only things are not as dark here as they once were. He thinks that maybe they are flying into the sun.


(Friday, January 27th; Week 19 continued)

Sherlock wakes, completely, with a jolt. His hand immediately curves over himself, eyes snapping open to take stock of his surroundings when he realizes the uncomfortable plastic chairs at his back have transformed into smooth sheets, and the lights here, soft, are not the fluorescents and their harsh glares overhead. It takes less than half a second to realize he is home.

The whole second to register that he is not alone; another to note that John, lying on his side next to him, is the one who causes it to be so.

His calm blue eyes watch all of this with a soft, private joy, crinkling at the edges when Sherlock turns to him. "Hi," he says, voice slightly rough, and in the early morning Sherlock imagines he can see the warmth of that one word; see it in the gold patterns of sunlight splashed along the wall, feel it in the heat that radiates from the body next to his.

"Why are we not in the hospital?" Sherlock asks as way of greeting, voice gravelly from sleep as it rumbles from his chest. It's not a feeling he's used to - this, being stretched out, embraced completely, content and languid with a pleasant weight in his limbs. Never has he been allowed to have it much - there were always cases, almost never breaks where he could just lie down and rest like this. He's not sure if he likes it. More data needed. Initial observations include the very important fact that things become infinitely more appealing when he is doing them with John.

Sensing his befuddlement, John doesn't take long with his answer. "Apparently, you were out like a light. And the doctors really had nothing more to do with me, once everything was out of my system."

The words pass fleetingly through his mind, and he gives a slow nod in response, but the rest of his body is dedicated to taking him in again, absorbing the data John hands to him simply by existing. No traces of discomfort - John's sturdy form leaves its gentle impressions in the mattress as it always has. No bruises, no wounds, no aches. His face is empty of strain, his eyes are kind, and wide, as if he's been awake for some time. But he is relaxed, and uninhibited - nothing dark lurks within them. No nightmares, then. And his hand, even as it stretches for the one Sherlock has curled on the pillow by his face, is completely steady.

As the weight settles against him, fiddles with his long fingers until his own shorter ones can slide between them, Sherlock is not sure he can say much of the same. Sometimes, even in the quiet, pre-dawn hours, even when everything is all foggy hazes and light, it hits him - will continue to hit him, he suspects, with all the unstoppable forces of trains or water or gravity - how easy it would be to lose this. The many ways in which John could be lost to him forever. The many ways in which he almost has, and even Sherlock knows that one way or another - whether it be bullets or disease or the creeping snares of grey hair and wrinkles - it will happen. How do people stomach that, he wonders? That… knowledge. Ever present, that the end is coming. How quickly it will come, or how slowly it might overtake and drag far, far away.

These are the questions that will kill him, in the end. The ones even his brain, so vast and open and free, cannot handle, because they do not belong to it. They are much baser passions.

Despite everything, despite even that - he squeezes, tentative but intent. "And what is your professional opinion, doctor?"

John's face breaks out into a smile, and it becomes much easier to slide those questions away. Because they do not matter, here in the light. Not as long as he is here. Questions, he supposes, for another day. "I'm glad to be home." He leans forward, bestows a kiss on Sherlock's wrinkled brow as if to smooth those worried creases away. It works. "Sleep," he murmurs, in an echo of Sherlock's earlier request. "We'll talk later."

Sherlock doubts he'll fall asleep again, but pretending to do so is not a difficult choice. Not when John is holding him close, one hand stroking over the crest of his ever-expanding abdomen, crushing their bodies into alignment almost fiercely. As if he'll never let go.

"Hullo, in there! Boys!" comes the shout from down the stairs a few hours later. "I'm coming up, and you better be dressed!"

Sherlock's eyes slant to John's. "You know your sister is -"

"Yeah," John nods, before rising up with a groan, rubbing a hand across his face. "We talked last night. She sort of… filled me in on the details of everything." Sherlock will be pulling the information from him later, there's no doubt - but something in John's troubled face makes him hold his tongue. For the time being, at least. He follows John's movements, grimacing when his back again protests, spine working to stretch from its previous uncomfortable confines. John passes a worried look over at him, but Sherlock waves him off. It's ridiculous that he should be the one worrying again, all things considered. Nevertheless, he'd missed this. On impulse, knowing full well that impulsivity was not one of his strong suits and not giving a damn anyway, he leaned over and took John's mouth with his own, reveling in the pliant flesh that opened under his with a quiet exhale.

"Thank you," John breathes, the movement of his lips tickling the skin on his cheek, before he moves up to capture another. "You took care of Harry. Thank you." The quick embrace does nothing to hide the fact that he is trembling.

Sherlock pulls back, the hand he has curled around John's neck thumbing absently at his top vertebra. He keeps his face passive. "Nothing, really."

John smiles, leans his forehead against Sherlock's; looks down into his silver eyes to see himself staring back. "You hid the beer," he whispers gruffly, as if such a bland statement is somehow the most wonderful thing in the world.

Before he can reply, Harry's knocking on the open door, eyes squeezed tightly shut. "Is it safe?" she teases, slowly peeking between her hands as she tiptoes into the room.

The smile John gives her is absolutely glowing, even as he rolls his eyes and flushes a bit. "You remain pure, Harriet," he says, patting the edge of the coverlet in invitation. She sits somewhat awkwardly on the side, hands sliding over her thighs. She throws John a sharp look, one eyebrow arched.

"What are you, the Pope?" Sherlock watches as they laugh, some private thing he does not understand. Unmistakably, he is… fine with it. The lack of understanding. Some things, he thinks, watching as long, shy looks pass between the laughing pair, are private.

Harry lets out a final giggle, dips her head and fiddles with the bracelets on her wrist as she regains control of her breathing. Her mouths opens a few times, but she can't seem to say anything. She looks up, sheepish. "I've been out in the city, taking care of some… things. And… well, god, I don't really know where to start."

"Trip to the realtor's office on Northumberland would be a good place to start," Sherlock drawls, cracking an eye open to return her incredulous face with a smirk of his own.

She snorts. "Well if you're so good, you tell me, then."

John stares between them, a faint grin lighting his face. Sherlock rolls his eyes and straightens, shifting to rest against the headboard. His eyes flick lazily over Harry, confirming all the things he'd deduced from the moment she'd stepped into the room.

"You've been to the realtor's office, as I've already said."

"How'd you know that?" Harry cuts in, crossing her legs and peering up earnestly at him.

Sherlock scowls at the interruption, to which John's grin transforms into a laugh. He places a hand on the globe of Sherlock's stomach, patting it almost patronizingly. "He likes it best when he can terrify you with all he knows before he gets to the explaining." Sherlock's scowl deepens, whether or not it's at the fact that John is right notwithstanding, but it only serves to make brother and sister collapse further into amused giggles.

Sorry, John mouths when he looks up at last, but the twinkle still glistens in the corner of his eye. Sherlock continues to wrinkle his nose, as if he's above their childishness. But it seems to make John laugh even harder, so there are added benefits - especially when he leans over and presses a kiss to the soft hair curling over his temple.

"May I continue now?" Sherlock grouses, and they both give nods of wry assent.

"By all means. Where else have I been today?"

His eyes go from mulishness to the keen, penetrating glare of deduction in a matter of milliseconds, and he jumps back into the threads of logic. "Realtor's office, and if you must know, it's because there's a red clay on the insole of your left shoe. You had to have come across the construction site where they've been digging up an area whose principal foundation is red clay, and that is directly across from the realtor's office. If you'd been coming from the hospital, as you were, then that would correlate with the correct side of the street." His eyes narrow, and his deductions go deeper, similar to the way he sits up and pulls forward in the thrill of observation, the switches all clicking in his mind, brain firing, firing, always firing away. "Coffee stains, on your blouse. What's the closest coffee shop to the realtor's office? Danielle's, obviously. You were there…" he frowns, continues, "after. It rained yesterday, but the mud on your shoes has dried, while the coffee stain is still relatively fresh - I can smell the mocha."

She's already looking amazed, eyebrows having disappeared into her hairline, but he bulldozes on as his fingers come to press prayerfully in front of his face. His eyes are all silver fire, sparking as his madness unfurls. "And you weren't there alone. The mocha's also contrasting with perfume. Not a scent of coffee, so a fragrance, but it's not a man's scent either, so a woman. Could be your new realtor, but this was a first visit. There's a business card in your pants pocket. So, no need to get friendly. A friend, however…" He braces for the end, then plunges in headfirst. "Blonde, perfumed - jasmine, I believe. Young woman's scent. And, interestingly enough, if I do recall, John sends Clara the Estee Lauder Jasmine collection every year for Christmas. Wouldn't have been used up by now, it's only February. So…" A serene smile spreads across his face as he finishes, lying back against the pillows, basking in the increasingly amazed look she's sporting as she gapes at him. "You've been seeing Clara."

The room is dead silent, and Sherlock takes another moment to revel in the feeling of being right; sighing deeply as the smug weight settles pleasantly over his shoulders with the thought of knowing how simple it was to impress them; to rise above it all like some sort of god. It's a heady sort of power, and he gets dizzy in the darkness of his head, so at last he opens an eye.

Harry's looking sheepish, avoiding the gaze of her brother as he stares, shocked, jaw comically unhinged at the seams. "Harry?" he questions slowly, prodding gently, as if he fears provocation - her own, and the one he might be pressing upon his fragile hopes.

It's almost too much; a tense, roiling uncertainty of suspense as she peers at her own intertwined hands, before she says quietly, the touch of a smile on her face, "Yeah. Yeah, John. Clara and I are… we're seeing each other again. We're taking things slow," she hurries on, as if in reassurance (though whether it's for her or John, even Sherlock cannot say), "but um, yeah. Yeah." She doesn't look as if she truly believes it either, and her hands continue to twist nervously, but the faint tugging at the corners of her lips is enough for John.

"Oh, Harry," he says, surging forwards and pulling her close. Her eyes widen in shock, before her arms, stiff by her sides, come to wrap around her brother's sides in reciprocation. "That's wonderful," he whispers, and her eyes, moments ago so impossibly large, squeeze shut, and her arms tighten around his strong frame, as she seems to sink into the embrace. Sherlock cannot see John's face, but he can almost literally watch the bands of tension fizzle out, draining from his shoulders and seeping away, as if they never were, the warm comfort of his sister's affections the only balm they've ever needed. He suspects he should feel disgruntled that there was something even he was unable to provide for the man who's given him everything, but as he watches them - shifting slightly, swaying forwards and back as Harry buries he nose in John's shoulder and inhales; as John's arm shifts to make smoothing strokes at her back - what he feels is quite the opposite.

It's almost like intruding upon a private moment, but it is, for now, alright. Because he has this strangest sense of… belonging.

Being a god, he decides, would be awfully lonely. Once, that might not have mattered - not in comparison with the power and wisdom it might bring. But now, he thinks, watching as they slowly draw back, smiles mirroring each other, he thinks he might, if offered, make a different choice.

John sighs, resting back again on his haunches. His face is open, honest, but a careful uncertainty appears. "I don't want… I don't want you to think I'm being… unhappy about this. Or…unsupportive." He squirms uncomfortably, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips before he presses on. "But as your brother, I do have to ask about the. Um. The drinking."

Sherlock cuts in, rising up as if he has suddenly remembered something of most vital importance. "Oh, didn't I mention? Harry, the business card in your pocket. Or should I say, cards." Harry looks away from her brother's worried face to grin wryly into Sherlock's.

"You really don't miss a thing, do you?" she asks, somewhat rhetorically, as her fingers dig around in her pockets to remove the two cards. She presses them into Sherlock's open, waiting hand with an empty sigh. "Go on, then. Tell him."

"Why tell when I can show?" Sherlock reasons, slipping the first card - realtor's office, London Living and Co., James Madden - Real Estate Agent. He smiles briefly at the affirmation of his rightness, presses the matter from his mind even as new theories begin to spin themselves in his head of all the things its presence in Harry's pocket could possibly mean -back to Harry, even as he hands the other over to John with a careless flick of his wrists.

Shoved as it is under John's nose, he has no choice but to take it and hold it away to read the fine ink on the cardstock. "AA…Alcoholics Ano- Harry," he breathes, and Sherlock is beginning to think his partner's cheeks will split with the ferocity of his smiles. He seems to throw them so carelessly around today, but Sherlock wants to capture every single, precious one. "You're - you're finally -"

She nods, somewhat gleefully, but there's a ruthless determination in her eyes that Sherlock has only glimpsed in a certain army doctor before. "My first meeting is tomorrow. I need - I need to change, and I'm determined to do this right. If…if Clara and I are going to work at this again, then I need to be in it one-hundred percent. That's also why the agent," she says, nodding to the card Sherlock has taken back out to reexamine carefully in the growing light. "Living in the city would leave me closer to the meeting house. I'd have no excuses," she laughs, and Sherlock recalls how different this sounds from the hideous cackles of the first night she'd showed up on their doorstep. This is not the wounded cry of a bruised and terrified animal - it is as if she is spinning glass in the air, pulling strands of sunlight to create a shower of crystal that fracture in dazzling patterns and leave them all blinded. It is a sound of hope. Of miracles. "I'd also be closer to Clara, so we can work on things. And I'll be closer to - to you." She takes a deep breath. "I really, really want to be involved in this. The baby. With you. I'm not going to lose my family again," she finishes, and though just as desperately determined, the look she fixes on each of them is clear and bright.

He feels himself gathered into another, unexpected embrace. One between brother and sister, yes, like before. But now he is a part of it, too; as he feels strong arms on one side and the faintest brush of Harry's hair against his cheek.

"No, no you won't," John is saying. That troubled look crosses his face again as he leans back, the one he's been struggling with for weeks now, and Sherlock watches as everything contorts in memory and nightmare, all at once. He's seen it on John's face from the army, seen it in that night when he came back, but now it is suffused with guilt. He looks up at his sister, and his eyes are haunted, and though she looks confused, Sherlock knows. He understands, and waits.

Sherlock waits for what he knows John needs to say. Because he has kept silent all this time; helped John through his own healing. But now John, the doctor, is self-diagnosing and realizing the root of his problem. And she is sitting in the bed, and she is resting in his heart.

"Harry," he begins, and his voice quavers in a way it hasn't since he returned from Afghanistan. "I... no, you won't lose your family again. But not all of that - most of it, really - wasn't your fault. I was..." he stops, breathes out and tries again. Unconsciously, Sherlock curls a hand around his knee, and he shifts into it, seems to gather strength as he begins speaking once more.

"I said some terrible things to you that night. And I should have - god, Harry, they were awful. I didn't even stop to think about all that you were going through. Too blinded by my own... well, I was selfish. That's the heart of it, really. And I did have a right to be sad, and angry for myself. Yeah, definitely. Because you and I both know some of the things you did were careless. But that's not - that doesn't mean I should have abandoned you. And I did. I swore I'd never, and I did. You needed me," he says, and he looks lost inside his eyes as he breaks her gaze. "And I'm so sorry for not seeing your side of this. I'm sorry for not seeing your losses. I'm - I don't know if you can ever forgive me. I don't know if I would."

Harry's face is impassive. After a time, she says softly, "For a while, I didn't think I would either. You hurt me, Johnny. I was hurting, and you ignored that." Her voice is tinged with a coldness that goes very, very deep, and Sherlock almost shivers from the weight of it in the room. But slowly, her face is transforming, and her tentative hand reaches out to touch her brother's shoulder softly. "But I'm here now. I'm here, John. And we - we both did wrong. So much wrong, so much shit for us."

Unexpectedly, she leans forward, and their eyes lock. Brother and sister, at once unguarded, and the depths of all she has revealed still sit in their gazes. And, it seems, an unspoken understanding begins to dawn in the dark, and in the smiles that slowly spread across their faces.

"But we're both getting better. And things are going to change. And we're going to be okay."

Harry politely ignores the tears of relief on his face as he buries his head in her shoulder, if only because he does the same for hers. Sherlock smiles softly, satisfied at what has unfolded before his eyes, even if some of it does not make sense to him.

But as John reaches back to pull him in, too, he thinks that maybe he is learning, and learning quite a lot.

After that, they sit in silence for a long moment, until Sherlock can sense his feet losing feeling and his back cramping in the way they're huddled, all squished together in tight angles and strong arms.

But it doesn't matter, because even as a multitude of sensations rise up and threaten to overwhelm his throat, and even as he feels the coils of tension developing in the uncomfortable places of his back, he has gained more.

Something in the room, once lost, has returned. And for the first time in a long time, the room, and they inside of it, feel whole and unbroken.

"How did you know she was blonde?" Harry whispers against his cheek.

Sherlock feels the edges of their smiles aligning where they are pressed together. "Hair on your shoulder. I thought it might be best not to mention to your brother."

"'Slow,' huh?" John grumbles, but it is good-natured, and as another fit of giggles overtakes the pair, and Harry pokes him in the side and starts an unintended wrestling match, Sherlock finds even he is unable to suppress a smile.

They spend the day with Harry, lounging around the flat. John catches up with his sister - or rather, they ignore her past and focus on the future. They do, however, talk about everything John has been up to in her absence. She's eager for him to fill in the details on everything she's missed with the baby.

Sherlock watches, mostly. Interjects when John says something too sappy or inane; keeps quiet and simply observes when he notes the look of wonder that has been for ages plastered all across his face, shining from his very pores. Simply observes in the moments when Harry trails off and gets a far-off, sad look in the corners of her eyes, and wonders if she's thinking about all she has lost. It immediately becomes vitally important that she have the chance again, or at least to be involved in every capacity with their own, but Sherlock keeps silent on that, too. Just wordlessly hands her those first ultrasound pictures, and stands before her when at last she gathers her things and moves to leave.

She looks surprised when his bulk presses against her. "Hands," he instructs, and though Sherlock does not usually allow this - he'd even balked at Mrs. Hudson's first grabbing of eager hands - it is he who guides them swiftly and easily to rest over the swell. Her fingers splay wide, her eyes enlarging to follow them, and she spares a second to look up into his face.

"Beautiful," she breathes, and though before Sherlock had never understood the draw or attraction in this; had always thought how distasteful it might feel to have the hands of others all over him, taking, taking, taking, when the word leaves her lips he can only nod in agreement.

A few more seconds, and she is withdrawing, giving her brother a hug and stepping towards the door. They follow, waving goodbyes, John giving reassurances to call her to check back in tomorrow. On an impulse, as the Watson family was inclined to do, she steps back from the open door and pulls Sherlock forward by the scarf around his neck, drawing him down so she can press a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you," she whispers again, a slight break in the middle of her words, and with a final, knowing smile she ducks her head and is gone, the wooden door closing with a soft click behind her.

John turns to face him, puzzled but clearly full to bursting with happiness. His eyes are shining in a way in which a man's who has just been kidnapped should not be. "What was that for?" he questions simply, a slight shrug in his shoulders as he looks up to look into Sherlock's eyes.

He's busy staring out the thin window at the retreating form of an extraordinary woman, his fingers reaching up to brush stupidly against his cheek. "Everything," he murmurs in reply, before he turns to John and wraps an arm around his waist, and they together make their way back up the stairs.


"Start at the beginning, and tell me everything," Sherlock requests, as he folds into his arm chair, fingers already steepling before his chin.

John sighs, shaking his head as he settles across from Sherlock. He leans forward, hands between his knees as his shoulders lift in a gentle shrug. "I told you already, I don't remember much of anything. One minute I'm walking out of Tesco's, thinking about which take-out place to stop at on the way home, and then bam. Darkness. And suddenly I'm drifting in and out of consciousness in a hospital."

Sherlock's brows settle stonily over his eyes, deep frown lines defining the sharp angles of his face. "You're saying you honestly don't remember anything? Nothing suspicious, no unexpected events or persons, no -?"

"Sherlock," John cuts in, fixing him with a hard look. "I'd tell you if anything was amiss. But as it is, whatever they gave me was really, really good in erasing all that. Why don't you believe me when I tell you that?"

Sherlock stands up in a flurry of frustration; winces when his legs cramp and cause him to stumble. "I'm fine," he snaps as John moves to help him, gripping the table for support as he moves to the window. He works to breathe; his lungs feel as if they are filling with rage, drowning in its swells. He closes his eyes, breathes. He hears John sit back down slowly; can also hear the question he isn't asking. "I… I can't believe-" he stops, grits his teeth and tries again. "Someone took you from me. They took you, and they drugged you, and we don't know a thing about them. Do you know what it's like; not knowing?" Sherlock gives a breathy laugh, but it has a bitter cadence.

"Yeah, I do," John cuts in. He stands again, but does not move to Sherlock. Just watches him from across the room with solemn eyes. "Not all of us can know everything, Sherlock."

"I know, not even me," Sherlock spits, more viciously than intended. "But you should at least be able to tell what happened to you before you were so easily borne off by some mystical, vanishing group and their paltry magic tricks."

"I'm trying, Sherlock, do you think this is easy for me?" John fires back, his tone rising. "Do you think I'm not trying to remember with everything in me? Do you think I'm not fucking terrified that I look back and all I see is this…darkness? Do you think I don't care that I didn't even realize -" he chokes, cutting off in the end.

He bites his lip, finding it exceedingly difficult to look at John and not tremble with rage, which only intensifies as he notices the shaking in John's hand. "No, I… I know that. But I should also know by now how to protect you. And if that fails, then vengeance should be the next step." Because I will make them pay. They do not know the severity of the lines they have crossed, but they will.

John clears his throat. "Sherlock, you're not going to lose me. And you're not some, I don't know, avenging angel, and I'm not some sort of helpless sidekick," he scoffs, holding his arms across his chest.

"It's not even all about losing you." Sherlock feels something fast and hot building just behind his skull, and he blinks rapidly at the sudden sensation. "It's…the thought of you, not existing, at all. Not anymore." His eyelids flutter shut on the thought. "And it's not just for…for me, anymore, either. You have to come home. For it. Him, or her. I will not let anyone take that, that fatherhood, away from our child."

There's a painful silence that hangs heavy between them, but John breaks it - shatters it completely, utterly, totally - with his next words. He finally steps forward into Sherlock's space, brushes up along his side until he is pressed against the growing mound. His other arm tightens around Sherlock's thin shoulders. "I promise I will do my best to never, ever let that happen. And I will try to remember, I will. I am trying, god, I'm trying. But it's terrifying, Sherlock. Not knowing, you're right. It's bloody terrifying. But shouting at each other isn't going to fix it."

"It's not your fault. You know I'm not, ah. Mad at you," Sherlock says awkwardly. No, John, never - but I can't see past the thoughts in my head that are all red pictures of you; blood and death and the end, things I never minded until you. The words begin to jumble in his head; he can't even sort through all of them. They tangle on his tongue, and his mouth remains open but no sound comes out. The silence is full of all those knots and ties, impossibly tangled.

"No," John says, and just like that, at the soft hint of quirked lips and kind eyes, so deep and blue and warm, the strings are unraveling, and Sherlock with them. "No, and I'm not mad at you. It's just the whole situation. We're a little tense, but that's alright." He slides a thumb over where Sherlock's collarbone peeks up around his shirt; small, somehow soothing in its easiness. "These are… bad things, Sherlock. But this is our life, and we just have to bear it the best we can. Like we always have, like we always will. No matter how frightening."

He sags against the smaller man, who shifts at the sudden weight but does not pull away. Sherlock dips his nose into the soft patch of downy, sand-colored hair. "Sometimes it's all so much, so much more inside my head and under my skin," he murmurs to it, feeling the strands tickle at his lips. "and I wonder - John, what are we bringing into this world? A place where people kidnap others. Murder others. A place where our child might lose a father before they've ever known him. These are our realities, and we're imposing them on another being, John."

Without hesitation, John turns Sherlock so they're face to face, Sherlock's protruding stomach stretching between them. He brings Sherlock's hands from his sides, places them across it, then rests his own hands on Sherlock's. "What do you do when you don't know things, Sherlock? On a case, I mean."

"Look for evidence," he answers easily, wondering what, exactly, John is getting at. "If it's relevant."

"Right," John agrees, hands smoothing over his front. "What you don't do is give up." Sherlock feels offended at the very idea, and John notes it in his expression with a slight tilt of his head. "You don't run away when you don't know things. Just like I didn't run away in the army when I was afraid. We're not the running types, unless we're running headfirst into something."

A slow smile has been spreading across Sherlock's face, and it continues to grow as he begins to understand John's meaning.

"And in case you've forgotten," John continues, easily slinging his other hand around Sherlock's waist and resting his fingers against his widening hips, "there is plenty of evidence that this will all be fine, in the end."

"What evidence?"

"Have you not been reading the parenting books? They say everyone freaks out in the beginning, just a bit."

Sherlock scoffs, as they turn together away from the window. "I am not 'everyone,' John. Neither are you."

John stares up at him, expression unreadable, stopping in his tracks for a moment. "It's late; we're exhausted. Come to bed," he says at last, and though his face betrays nothing, the arm around Sherlock's side cinches tighter, and does not promise to let go any time soon.