Disclaimer: Sadly, I do not own Sherlock Holmes or any recognizable character and am not making any profit by using them.

Author´s notes: Thank you all so much for replying to my author's note last time, there were some very enlightening answers and I really appreciate your taking the time to write something!

Enjoy!

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Hazard Control

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Part 14: What Goes Up Must Come Down

o

Sherlock sleeps fitfully for the rest of the night and the ones that follow; several times, he jerks upright with a start, groping around blindly in the dark until John is alert enough to calm him down. Sherlock's heart beats wildly every time, and he struggles against John's hold, unaware that he's doing so. The last time it happens, it's still dark outside.

"Sherlock," John says quietly, gently but determinedly holding on to him. Sherlock's trembling and quivers in his arms when he hears the other's voice.

"John," he grinds out, choked, "John."

"I'm here," John reassures him, murmuring into his ear. "I've got you. We're all right."

He continues to do so until Sherlock lies still again, clinging to John as if he'd drown otherwise. The doctor gives up on sleep for the time being; instead, he holds on to Sherlock, gently caressing him, hoping he can keep the nightmares at bay like this.

o

At one point, the first light is just creeping through the curtains, John notices that Sherlock's no longer sleeping. He is blinking slowly and possibly wondering why his boyfriend is holding him in a kind of gentle death-grip. But he remains silent, and John waits for him to talk first. Sherlock however only closes his eyes again and presses his face against John's skin with a small sigh. Maybe he does remember. John's hand wanders to Sherlock's neck, his fingers playing with the curls at the nape. If anything, he can offer Sherlock his patience.

"Moran," Sherlock says without preamble, "he is still there. In my head. I can't delete him. And he's broken into my Mind Palace."

Anyone unfamiliar with Sherlock would have laughed about that last piece of information, but John knows better. Knows that it is to be taken serious.

"How did he do that?" he asks, calmly.

Sherlock exhales somewhat shakily: "I had locked him away. I couldn't delete him, so I put him somewhere in the back of my mind. But now, all of a sudden, he's interfering with things which are securely stowed away in my Mind Palace. He's like a ghost that can walk through walls. Even when I'm thinking about completely different matters, he's suddenly there. As if my subconscious wanted to mock me."

"And it makes you feel vulnerable."

"Yes."

"But he's dead."

"Yes."

"Sometimes that's even worse."

Sherlock closes his eyes once more, grateful for John and the way he understands. In his good dreams, he walks up to Moran and punches him until he's bleeding, then tells him that he'll never ever hurt anyone Sherlock loves, or anyone at all for that matter. It's immensely satisfying and usually ends up with Moran being irrevocably defeated. In the dream it always makes sense.

In his nightmares, Moran retains the upper hand, and it's Sherlock who's being defeated, who's lost among those which his enemy killed. And who can't die himself, for Moran wants him to suffer. He's had these dreams before, but not so frequently. Writing about Moran and talking about him has increased them.

"I didn't even know about Moran when I left London," he says when he's got his voice under control again. "He's a wild-card, unpredictable, and he was invisible for a long time. I didn't learn about him until months later." He remembers it all too well: Mycroft had called him to inform him about Moran. The older Holmes made it very clear that Moran was a game-changer, for one thing was certain: Sherlock no longer had been the hunter, he was being hunted himself all of a sudden. It had meant double the amount of security for John, Lestrade and Mrs Hudson, but it had also meant that Sherlock had to alter his modus operandi; it would have been too risky to proceed as planned.

It had thrown him back a few weeks, but that hadn't been what had been worst about the whole situation: he had been unable to put London out of his thoughts. John. The others too, but most of all, John. Sherlock had not forgotten Moriarty's threat: "I'll burn the heart out of you." He couldn't be sure that Moran wouldn't carry it out instead; he probably had gotten detailed instructions. The thought alone had made Sherlock feel sick.

Concern belonged into the same category as sentiment, and it made him less effective and annoyingly vulnerable. And yet he wasn't able to stop it, or push it back into the corner of his mind he has reserved for especially difficult cases which needed to be postponed but weren't designated for the Mind Palace.

He feels John's hand in his hair and once more realizes what he'd have lost if Moran had indeed targeted the doctor. Though 'lost' is the wrong term in this regard- he'd never even have had this, John's hand in his hair, John's closeness which he has come to cherish. John's love. He'd have lost his best friend, and that'd have been that. Their relationship would never have gotten a chance to develop further. Involuntarily, he shivers. At which the hand pauses for a moment, then John hums: "He does sound creepy," he says. "So how do we get rid of him?" The affection in his tone wraps Sherlock in a cocoon of safety and love.

"Just give it time," Sherlock murmurs, grateful for the 'we'. He's tired of doing things single-handedly. Stay with me, John. Just stay with me.

John presses a kiss on Sherlock's temple: "I'll read a bit, okay?" Without waiting for Sherlock's answer or moving too much, he reaches out and fishes the book from the nightstand: "Whoever falls into the water in Greenland does not come up again. The sea is less than 4°C, and at that temperature all processes of decomposition have ceased." John hesitates; he wouldn't recommend reading this to anyone else with a distressed mind, but for Sherlock, it's probably exactly the right thing, keeping his interest and therefore, his mind off other things. Subdueing a sigh, the doctor reads on: "That's why the fermentation of the stomach contents does not occur here; in Denmark it gives suicides renewed buoyancy and brings them to the surface, to be washed ashore."

As the weather eventually improves from constant rain to dry and sometimes even sunny days, Sherlock and John take to walking around the grounds, which are of the size of a small park. They have discussed returning to Baker Street, and while Sherlock is eager, John still hesitates. For one, Sherlock's not even remotely fit enough yet in his opinion, and the doctor is worried that he'll overstrain himself. What if Lestrade lets him in on his cases and Sherlock -against his better judgement- chases off after a suspect? His body wouldn't thank him, apart from the fact that he'd stand no chance in a fight.

The risk seems too high. John will of course have a word with Lestrade, and he's certain that the Detective Inspector won't go against his wishes (if he can let Sherlock in at all), but who knows- maybe Sherlock will find another chance to worm his way in.

The other reason is more complicated and hard to explain. He can't really put a finger on what exactly it is that is bothering him; maybe it's the prospect of returning to the daily grind. Maybe it's because here at the manor he can keep a much better eye on Sherlock than in Baker Street. Maybe it's because he's afraid that things will change once they have gone back to everyday life, that normalcy (as far as the term is applicable to life in 221B) is going to affect Sherlock's and his relationship in the negative. And of course, it undeniably won't be as comfortable as it is here. John has gotten used to not having to do the dishes or cleaning, and he doesn't look forward to it.

Sherlock didn't take John's reluctance well, even though John has only named the first of his reasons.

"I won't do anything I'm not up to," he insisted, at which the doctor couldn't but stare at him incredulously: "Yes, you will."

"I won't."

"Fine. Let's say your intentions are good. What if something unforeseen happens? What if you're going out for some air and someone gets mugged right in front of you? Don't tell me you won't chase after the thug."

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you love the thrill."

"True. I might forget myself. But the chances for someone being mugged right in front of me are rather slim, don't you think? This entire conversation is pointless."

"It's not." John firmly stood his ground. "My point is: what if something pops up, something which might tempt you to do something stu- something you'd possibly regret later, and I'm not there to stop you?"

"But you will be there."

"I might be out to get the groceries. Hell, I might even get a new job."

"Not until you declare me sufficiently recovered to be left on my own." Sherlock looked smug. "We could order our groceries on the internet until then. Or anyway, come to think of that."

"Talking of pointless conversations." John folded his arms: "Just a few more weeks, Sherlock. You should use the time to walk outside, work on your stamina. You're doing fine, and it's much easier to do it all here than back home." Admittedly, the word does induce a pleasant shiver to run down his spine. "I'll need some time to organize my stuff anyway, give note to my landlord and such."

Sherlock had huffed, but didn't protest any further: "Two weeks."

"Three."

"Two."

"Fine. Two, and we'll see how it goes then. Provided that you'll eat and sleep and continue to do so once we're back in 221B."

Sherlock looked rather disgruntled at that for a moment, but then his expression had softened a little: "Two bedrooms," he had said. "We won't be needing two bedrooms any longer."

"No," John had agreed while his stomach was doing somersaults at the pleasant realization. He hadn't even thought about that yet. "We won't."

Even though the nightmares begin to recede, Sherlock is getting increasingly irritable in between walking and exercising and waiting, and the fact that John goes to run his errands a few times doesn't help with that. Of course, Sherlock is aware that these errands are necessary and in favour of their moving back in together, but he is crabby nevertheless; John's hesitation has had him thinking second thoughts as well.

"Why do you call it 'moving back in together' at all?" he asks one morning as John is getting ready to leave, with a definite edge in his tone. "Technically, I've never moved out. And you haven't moved away from me, you've moved out of an empty flat. You should call it 'moving back in with you'."

John, for all his usual patience, has a difficult time not to raise his voice:"For God's sake, why don't you sit down and read something if you are so bored that you feel compelled to pick at my choice of words?"

"Reading is boring."

"Not true. I've seen you sitting and reading quietly for hours. And I vaguely recall that you like being read to by me."

"That's different."

"Fine. Deal with it."

"I don't know what to read anyway."

"There's an abundance of books in this house, Sherlock." John's voice is getting dangerously quiet.

"Not interested."

"Liar." The doctor's gaze strays over to the cupboard full of Sherlock's grandma's books.

Sherlock sets his lips in a thin line and doesn't reply, but his eyes are blazing as he glares at John.

Who refuses to be sympathetic this time, because really, Sherlock and his pigheadedness are driving him up the wall. "Fine. Sit here and sulk, I have to go."

He can feel Sherlock's stare all the way to the door, but he wills himself not to stop and turn around. He does feel sorry for his partner, because being holed up like this is completely going against his nature. Of course, holed up doesn't really apply to the comfort of Holmes Manor, but John is aware how much of Sherlock's patience (of which there's few and far in between anyway) it is taking, and the softer part of him is already relenting: it'd be easy to just go back, pull the idiot into his arms and try to make it better.

But no, the soldier part of him says, he can't be allowed to get through with this.

The softer part reluctantly agrees. With a heavy heart, John therefore succeeds in leaving the room without giving in, only throwing a "Later" over his shoulder before closing the door behind him.

As soon as John is gone, Sherlock visibly deflates. He didn't mean to say those things. As usual, John didn't deserve to bear the brunt of his frustration, but Sherlock couldn't stop himself. Ever since he has compiled the file for Mycroft, he's been worrying on top of being bored, and now the whole 'moving back'-issue is putting even more emphasis onto it. He is afraid of losing John. It didn't make sense to him at first, seeing as Moriarty isn't a threat anymore.

Yet he can't shake off the notion that there are so many other things which might happen, considering his job and John's participation in it. It all comes down to those bloody feelings; now that he and John are romantically involved, the one thing he is afraid of is to lose his doctor. So far, they have been lucky. Which has him pondering how to proceed; he wants John by his side now more than ever, desperately wants him, wants to keep the 'we', but that is blatantly selfish. He can of course try to exclude John from his cases, but that doesn't necessarily mean that John can't be targeted.

However, Sherlock can't very well find another job, can he? There's nothing else he can or wants to do than solving crimes. It's one thing to risk his own life though, but an entirely different matter if there's another one at stake.

The price seems to high. Maybe it's been a mistake to give in to his feelings; maybe he shouldn't have become so involved with John, not like this. But whenever his thoughts have reached this point, his heart aches and he feels nauseous. He can't give up this love. But that is the point, isn't it? He can't selfishly take John's love and offer nothing but danger in return.

He shivers; if he can't be with John, he'll perish, that is how vulnerable all these feelings have made him.

Slowly, as though not entirely convinced that he is doing the right thing, Sherlock leaves his room and goes to find Mycroft.

John enters 221B and looks around. Mrs Hudson, who is downstairs making tea, has kept the flat clean; there's no dust, no furniture under covers. There are those boxes with the few of Sherlock's things they have packed up, but apart from that, it looks like it always did. Except that it's colder than usual, and the air is a little stale.

It makes John's heart soar to know that he'll be soon living here again, with Sherlock. A little pang of guilt makes itself known, immediately followed by anger about feeling guilty at all.

"Manipulative bastard," John murmurs, albeit a little half-heartedly. The skull is grinning at him, clearly taking Sherlock's side.

On a whim, John crosses through the kitchen and into Sherlock's bedroom. Which will possibly be his as well, since it's bigger and nicer than the one upstairs, not as susceptible to heat or coldness, and situated right next to the bathroom.

With a sneaky feeling, John opens the door to Sherlock's wardrobe. All his suits are there, neatly lined up on their hangers. For all the chaos Sherlock tends to spread around him, he is very tidy with his clothes, as proven by the sock index. John still hasn't got the knack of that. He smiles, fondly; probably no one else than Sherlock will ever do.

Tentatively, John bends forward, taking in his boyfriend's scent with a deep breath; this is the smell of home, and no matter how prickly Sherlock was when John left, it immediately stirs up a myriad of butterflies in John's belly.

o

The squeaking floorboard from just outside the door propels him backwards; it's Mrs Hudson, who is clearing her throat at the sight of a rather flustered John: "Sorry, love. Tea's ready." With that, she quickly turns and leaves; John can't help but think that he's seen a sad smile on her face.

For a moment, he stands very still; this is the second time that the old lady has witnessed what some people might call inappropriate behaviour, but if anything, she seems to approve of it. Which doesn't change the fact that he is positively flustered when he enters Mrs Hudson's kitchen two minutes later.

"It's all right, dear," she says after just one look, pushing a pale green tin over to him. It's old, possibly from the 1950s, and has roses on the lid. In it, he finds the photograph of a young man, someone who'd possibly be described as 'racy', wearing a quiff and a jaunty smile. Underneath the photo, there's only one more item: a handkerchief, made of plain white cotton; it's got fading blue embroidery along the hems and looks like it's been crumpled up and then smoothed out again.

"His name was Alistair," Mrs Hudson says when John looks up questioningly, "and I was completely smitten with him when I was sixteen. We went out on a few dates, then... he dumped me for the next one." Her expression is wistful: "I kept his hanky, and you have no idea how often I took it out, just to feel close to him."

John smiles: "Thank you for showing me this," he says. "And he probably didn't deserve you, anyway."

"I have already made sure that there'll be the topmost security on Baker Street," Mycroft says, calmly. Sherlock didn't really expect to find him at this time of day, but he seems to work from home a lot these days.

"That's not enough. Someone's got to monitor him around the clock, whatever he does, wherever he goes."

"Even if that means to monitor you as well?"

"I don't care. I want him to be safe."

"What if he finds out? I don't imagine that he'll be happy about it."

Sherlock remains silent, though his stony face is only a facade. He knows what he's putting at risk, and his heart is beating wildly.

Mycroft regards his younger brother with a carefully neutral expression before nodding:"Rest assured that I will initiate the necessary arrangements immediately."

"Good." Sherlock fiddles with the hem of his jumper: "Thank you."

"Not at all." A smile appears on the older Holmes' face as he studies his sibling, and it looks genuinely affectionate.

It makes Sherlock uncomfortable, but for once, he manages not to snap at Mycroft. With a nod, he leaves the room.

o

Mycroft ponders this latest development; for Sherlock to demand such a high-grade surveillance is the last thing he anticipated. His people have gone through the file his brother provided with a fine-tooth comb, but Sherlock seems to have done a good job (a notion which fills Mycroft with pride).

The reason must be a different one. Mycroft smirks to himself; it seems that Sherlock is deeply and truly in love, and that the emotions are indeed strong enough for him to put John Watson's welfare before his own. The smirk fades as Mycroft continues this train of thought; it shouldn't be so difficult, he thinks. Being in love should include carefreeness, not the feeling of having to protect the other from enemies yet unseen.

Sherlock's words from a long time ago come back to him, spoken on a snowy Christmas Eve in a morgue: "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?"

Yes, Mycroft concedes silently, sadly; there is. Even if we do care.

After tea, John returns to 221B; he has brought his clothes from his current flat and now wonders whether they'll fit into Sherlock's wardrobe together with the detective's things. Probably not. They'll have to shift the furniture around a bit to make way for his own stuff, from the look of things.

He carries his clothes upstairs for the time being, then chooses one of Sherlock's suits to take to the manor, the black one made of velvety corduroy. Sherlock's worn it when they met for the first time, and it's John's favourite. He finds a matching shirt and carefully packs it into a duffle bag; Sherlock will probably not want to return to Baker Street in his father's jumper.

After unpacking the boxes, which takes nearly two hours, and tidying up behind him, John is finally done for this day. He'll come back once more with groceries and such, because he doesn't want Mrs Hudson to do it all. Not that it'd bother her, but John is mindful of her age and the fact that they sometimes do take her for granted.

Back at the manor, John finds Sherlock staring at The Field of the Cloth of Gold with folded arms and a ruminative expression.

"Maybe we shouldn't nick it," he says without preamble, his gaze never leaving the painting. "I'm not sure I want a picture of Henry VIII in my flat."

"He was a right bastard," John agrees, though that's obviously not the actual reason. This particular king hasn't bothered Sherlock before, after all.

"My focus was on the dragon," Sherlock says coldly, as though he's read John's mind. "Which should be odd, considering that it's not even in the golden ratio. It doesn't make sense."

"Your focus was on it because it reminded you of your grandma," John says, softly, wondering in earnest now what is bothering his partner. It is a little alarming to hear Sherlock speak like that; he's not used to it anymore. Maybe Sherlock is still mad at him for leaving like he did earlier.

"What's wrong?" he inquires in the same soft voice. He has nearly forgotten about their silly little argument while he was at 221B, engulfed by fond memories, and isn't really prepared for this.

"Nothing's wrong," Sherlock spits, "I just changed my mind."

"And you seem to be under the impression that I criticised you."

"You did."

"Excuse me? When?"

"Just now. You were thinking that I should have noticed the fat idiot much earlier."

John can't help it, but his own temper flares up as well at this unjustified accusation. "No, I didn't!" This time, he does raise his voice. "Stop being like this, Sherlock, you're insufferable."

"As is customary for me, wouldn't you say?" Sherlock replies bitterly.

John opens and closes his mouth a few times before he finds the right words: "Stop telling me what I'm thinking!"

Sherlock scoffs: "It's what I do."

"No, Sherlock. Not with me." John feels strangely helpless, but he still can't let the other one get away with this. "Talk to me, please. I thought we were honest with each other."

"We are. I'm the show-off, you're the heart. There's a difference."

John has half a mind to walk out on Sherlock, but he knows that it wouldn't solve anything.

"What's wrong, Sherlock?" he asks again, his voice a little calmer. "Tell me."

Sherlock however only shoots him one look, then, with a few long strides, leaves the room. A rush of fear-driven adrenaline runs through John's body, leaving him shocked and rooted to the spot for a moment, unable to figure out what has just happened there.

Sherlock doesn't exactly run, but he walks fast. As fast as he can, that is, and once more he has to acknowledge that the exercises have been good for him.

His old hiding tree isn't far from the house, yet it can't be seen from any of the windows. Sherlock finds that his hands and feet remember astonishingly well which branches, knobs and indentations to use for climbing, and it doesn't take long for him to reach the crutch in which he used to sit. The foliage is quite dense already, hiding here will give him time to think.

He looks around; it seems that he's been here only yesterday when in fact it's more than fifteen years ago. Running his fingers over the bark, he experiences a sense of peace washing over him. As long as he doesn't think of John, that is, because thinking of John immediately triggers the guilt he fully well knows he ought to feel. The predominant thing he feels however is pain, raw and terrible, eating at his heart.

John has been looking for Sherlock all over. He isn't anywhere in the house, at least not those parts John has access to, and the butler hasn't seen him either.

When it is getting dark outside and Sherlock still hasn't come back, John decides to employ Mycroft.

"Sherlock's run off in a strop and I can't find him anywhere," he says, aware of how that sounds. He is not aware of how devastated he looks, how his fists clench and unclench at his sides.

"He's worried about you," the older Holmes says while he's getting to his feet.

"He's got a funny way to show it," John huffs.

"We are not very gifted when it comes to dealing with emotions," Mycroft admits, "as you should know by now."

"Yes, thanks, I do," John all but snaps, "though it's a little annoying that you're not making a bit more of an effort to change that! Neither of you!" Boy, it feels good to vent.

"Clearly it's not fair to expect your patience to be endless," Mycroft says after a moment of comprehension.

"Why is he worried about me at all?" John fumes.

Mycroft raises one eyebrow: "Isn't it obvious?"

John looks as though he is ready to pounce.

Hurriedly, Mycroft continues: "Now that your relationship has developed further and after all that happened, he is afraid that something might happen to you," he explains. "He doesn't know how to deal with it."

The doctor snorts:"He's certainly not making things easier by pushing me away all of a sudden."

"No." For a moment, Mycroft's expression is pained, because it is exactly what Sherlock has done with him, years ago. He looks at John for a moment, pondering: "You better stay here. I'll go and find him."

It seems that he's got a rather precise idea where to look.

"Fine!" Still looking thunderous, John folds his arms, his whole body tense. Without any further comment, Mycroft leaves the room.

Sherlock is being pulled out of his unhappy musings when he catches a movement in the corner of his eye. To his surprise, it's Mycroft who's crossing the lawn, and he is walking purposefully towards the very tree Sherlock is sitting in.

It doesn't take long for him to spy his brother; in the twilight of dusk, he can mainly see Sherlock's eyes, large and prominent in his pale face.

"Sherlock, come down," Mycroft says, albeit in a much more lenient tone than back at Buckingham Palace, which was the last time he ordered for Sherlock to do something.

"No."

"You're not six years old anymore."

"How did you know I was here?"

"Once you were tall enough to reach the lowest branches, you've always been hiding in this tree when you needed to be alone. The first time you came here was after Father threatened to sell Jupiter if you didn't learn the times table."

Sherlock stares at Mycroft, taking a moment to digest this unexpected information and what it means.

"I'm not coming down yet," he eventually says nevertheless, hoping that Mycroft can't see that he's shivering. It's getting cold, and he isn't wearing his coat. Once again.

"Then you're leaving me absolutely no alternative," Mycroft replies, and to Sherlock's horror, he reaches up and begins to climb the tree.

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To Be Continued

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The line "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" is quoted from "A Scandal in Belgravia".