Warm and full of life, the tree lit and wrapping paper still scattered around, voices filled up every space of the flat, underlain by the faint strains of Christmas carols that Sherlock had put on as an indulgence for Mrs. Hudson.
John was sat on the couch, half an ear tuned to Mrs. Hudson, her niece, and Tricia as they chatted about cake recipes and the other half turned to the rather worrying conversation Sherlock and Henry were having about poisonous plants native to Egypt. There was a familiar glint in Sherlock's eye that John could see even across the room. He had to hope that Henry's legal expertise didn't extend to knowing how to smuggle controlled substances across international borders.
Josephine, nearly lost in the lab coat Sherlock had bought for her, was perched at the kitchen table, listening intently to something bubbling away in a beaker with the child sized stethoscope she'd received from John himself. For a moment, John wondered if he ought to be concerned – Sherlock had done a good job training Josephine to be careful around his chemicals, but she was only four.
As if sensing his gaze on her, his niece lifted her head and gave him a sunny smile before clambering off the chair and crossing the flat to crawl onto his lap. John folded his arms around her warmly, smiling at the intent look on her face as she pressed the stethoscope against his chest.
"Your heart is slow, Uncle John," she whispered. "Does that mean it's sad?"
From beside him on the couch, Tricia chuckled, turning to run a hand through her daughter's hair.
"No, it means his heart is healthy," she replied. "Adults have slower heartbeats than children, sweetheart."
"Mine is very fast," Josephine said, nodding in sombre agreement, and John grinned.
"Let me listen," he said and she gave him the stethoscope. He made a show of trying to find her heartbeat, humming and hawing until Josephine was giggling. John gave a cry of mock triumph when he found it and frowned in concentration.
"Very healthy indeed," he pronounced.
Later, after everyone else had left and he'd managed Sherlock's help in tidying up, John settled down with a book while his husband busied himself with whatever his latest experiment was, keeping the kitchen window cracked open against the smell. He had that same intent look he'd been wearing while talking to Henry and John got the distinct impression Sherlock was hurrying to finish whatever this was so he could move onto a study of Egyptian poisons.
John sighed, turning his attention to the novel he'd been reading, but his concentration began to drift after a few pages and he found himself staring at the sentence he'd read three times in a row already. With deliberate effort, John managed to keep his concentration until the end of the page before losing track again.
The silence in the flat was familiar, punctuated by the faint clink of glassware as Sherlock worked, and the lights from the Christmas tree bathed the room in a comfortable warmth. Despite the lingering ache in his head and the tendency to get tired more easily – not to mention the vivid bruise that still stung his ribs – the feeling of safety had crept back in when John wasn't paying attention.
He'd only gone out once following their illegal excursion, after Donovan had come around to the flat to see if he could identify either of his assailants from a photo line-up. When that had failed, he'd gone down the Yard, Sherlock hovering protectively behind him, glowering at anyone who so much as looked at either of them. A voice line-up had been much more productive; he'd been able to identify both of them without any problems, giving the police that much more ammunition.
Morgan had told him she'd shown their photographs to Riley, who remembered nothing of them. Nor did he admit to remembering anything about Neil Hayes or having any knowledge as to why Hayes' body had turned up in a construction site.
John felt another stirring of guilt but pushed it down, trying not to think of the flash drive stowed in the desk drawer. He couldn't believe Riley was lying – if he had anything to with Hayes' death, it was so close to his own assault he wasn't likely ever to remember it properly anyway.
If, John reminded himself, ignoring the memory of Morgan's voice in his mind, commenting on the coincidences that followed Riley around. It could be a coincidence, for all they knew.
And there was nothing in John that felt sorry that Neil Hayes was dead.
With a little help from Sherlock's hacking abilities and passwords stolen from far too many people to make John comfortable, he'd been able to access more information about Hayes than he could find on the internet. His own searches had been relatively fruitless – there were mentions here and there in news, articles about Hayes and links to RIRA. From what he'd been able to learn on his own, there'd been no links between Hayes and the shooting of the British Army officers in Northern Ireland eight years previous.
The official – and classified – information had no firm links to that either, but more than enough suggestions. According to an informant well known to John, Hayes had at least been in Antrim at the time, if not near the barracks.
More damning were the details Riley had provided about the attacks Hayes had planned or executed – along with information gathered by police from their own investigations. John had read it all slowly, half hoping it wasn't true. He wasn't so naïve to think he'd left all of this behind when he'd been sent home from Afghanistan – especially not having spent his life since then with Sherlock.
But it was infuriating to go through police report after police report, all of which had turned into cold cases because not even John Riley had been able to pinpoint Hayes' location for the police. John had checked all the records very carefully; from what he could tell, the last time Riley had seen Hayes had been twelve years ago at the gallery.
Until, of course, Riley had gone to his house. Had Hayes known that Riley had turned informant? Had he recognized Riley at his front door? He must have done, John thought, because he'd taken pictures of him.
And now Hayes was dead and Riley was in the hospital. The two men Sherlock had apprehended weren't talking according to Donovan. John wondered if their fingerprints were on file from Healy's murder twelve years ago.
He wondered if either of them knew what was really going on. Did anyone?
"You've been staring at the same sentence for eight minutes." Sherlock's voice cut through John's thoughts and the doctor felt his spine tense, drawing his shoulders together slightly. He sighed and glanced back.
"Either it's particularly well written or you should put the book away for a while."
John returned his gaze to the book before looking around the flat. He was surrounded by the comfortable chaos of their home, secure in the knowledge that he had everything he needed – food, shelter, security. And companionship and love. The feeling was almost a physical sensation, closing in around him, enveloping him.
He could remember a time when he had none of that, when he'd felt utterly abandoned by his life, when each cold day crept past with agonizing slowness, no different than the day before, blending into the day after.
He thought of William in Buckinghamshire – his first Christmas without his wife. But Mycroft was there with Angela and David. Mrs. Hudson had her niece, John had Sherlock.
John twisted in his chair to find Sherlock watching him curiously. He made a decision.
Mindful of his ribs and his tendency to get dizzy, he rose and ordered a taxi before rummaging around for a bag, aware of Sherlock's gaze following him carefully. He selected some bits out of pile of presents he'd received from colleagues and patients, picked up the remains of the tin of biscuits that Mrs Hudson had made them and added some HobNobs to the mix. He'd received a couple boxes of fancy tea he wasn't fond of either, and put those in the pile. Sherlock was still watching him – John knew that penetrative grey eyed gaze even without seeing it – but he kept working, going through their cupboards, pulling out a package of unopened chocolate HobNobs.
"No one should be alone at Christmas," he said, glancing over his shoulder. "Unless it's by choice."
Sherlock lifted his eyebrows and John suddenly wondered how many Christmases his husband had spent alone – and how many of those had been spent so high he hadn't known what day it was.
Sherlock joined him, helping him pack the bag without comment. When John moved across the flat to fetch his jacket, Sherlock followed, shouldering his own long coat as well, winding his scarf around his neck in a quick, practiced movement. John paused, frowning, silent questions written on his expression.
"No one should be alone on Christmas," Sherlock echoed. John felt a sudden flare of guilt but saw a smile ghosting at the edges of Sherlock's lips – he was coming for John's sake, not his own.
"Thanks," John breathed.
Sherlock shouldered the bag with a pointed look and John relented when he remembered that navigating the stairs even unencumbered right now was tricky. Sherlock followed slowly behind him without a word – it occurred to John that Sherlock wasn't just company, but protection.
Outside, a light snow was falling and the cab was slow to navigate the busy London streets but the comfortable silence was made warmer when Sherlock curled his gloved fingers over John's bare ones.
They were greeted cheerily by a constable who recognized John and checked the gifts before he went in. Sherlock gave his husband a quick kiss before settling into one of the chairs in the corridor, phone already in hand, eyes intent on the small screen.
Riley was watching something on the telly but his gaze slid to John when the doctor came inside, shutting the door behind him with a soft click. Surprise flickered over his features where they were not obscured by bandages, bruises, and healing cuts. He didn't look much better – but it had only been a handful of days since John had last seen him.
There was a suggestion of a smile on the injured man's lips, a faint gleam in his good eye.
"Didn't expect you," Riley said, voice barely above a whisper.
"Merry Christmas," John replied. "I brought you some things."
Riley picked through arrangement of gifts out, looking at each one curiously. He murmured a sheepish thank you, a small smile playing on his lips briefly before his brow furrowed in thought.
"They– she– the Irish inspector–" he began, expression darkening as he fumbled for the name.
"Morgan," John supplied. He wasn't happy that Riley was struggling with that but wasn't surprised, either.
"She said she'd bring round some of my own clothes. I don't know if it'll matter."
"It could help," John said, thinking of Sherlock's insistence on wearing his own clothing when he'd been in the hospital, even if it was just to sleep in. The first time he'd managed to get his husband dressed in proper clothing – not pyjamas – after The Crash, something had lifted in Sherlock's spirits.
"Sometimes it's just nice to wear something familiar, something that isn't–" He caught the wry look Riley gave him and stopped with a sigh, realizing what he'd meant. "Well, the smell or the feel might trigger a memory."
Riley nodded vaguely, looking only tired and resigned. He fiddled with the package of HobNobs until John offered to open it, then nibbled at a biscuit.
"These are pretty good," he commented and John relaxed a bit, smiling.
"Sherlock likes them, too – although he can never remember their bloody name."
Riley read the package, smiling slightly, before pushing it aside.
"D'you think I'll ever remember anything?" he asked.
"You've remembered some things," John said. "I think that's a good sign."
"Do you think I'll remember if I killed that man? The one they just found?"
John's eyebrows shot up and he cursed inwardly – had that been Morgan or Donovan's brilliant idea? He withheld a sigh; part of him knew they were just trying to close their investigations. Investigations that were currently complicated and probably showed no signs of being resolved.
"Morgan said I knew him."
John nodded silently, thinking of CCTV footage and the photographs.
"You did."
"We were terrorists."
"Yes," John replied, not mincing words. Riley didn't look surprised, only nodded. John wondered how he'd learned about all of this – and if it meant anything to him at all.
"Maybe I should go to prison," Riley said. "Maybe I did kill him – and that cop twelve years ago. I don't know. I killed a lot of other people."
John stayed silent, chewing on the insides of his cheeks, remembering the times he'd had to shoot to save his own life or the life of a fellow soldier – and how much he'd hated it. He thought of the patients he'd lost on the operating table, how he'd fought so hard to save each one and failed. It wasn't the same, but it had felt like his responsibility then. Sometimes it still did.
"If they can't prove it, they can't put you in prison," he said reasonably.
"Does that mean I shouldn't go?" Riley asked simply, meeting his gaze with his good eye. John fought the urge to fidget and shrugged, shaking his head.
"You know, she – Morgan – told me I had a son who died. Thomas. That was his name. Apparently. I never remember to ask her what my wife was called. It doesn't mean anything to me. It must have done, right?"
The question ended with only the slightest tremor but there was raw need in Riley's face – pleading for some reassurance that once all of this had been important to him. That it was more than just facts delivered by a stranger who didn't like him.
"Yes," said John, because he couldn't imagine anyone losing a child and not thinking anything of it. He couldn't comprehend what it would be like to be told that this had happened but to have no association with it. To fight to find meaning when the memories were gone.
"Maybe I did kill him," Riley said again, looking away.
"He was a terrible man," John replied, only half surprised to hear himself nearly echoing words he'd said to Sherlock on their first case together, when he'd made a decision and shot a stranger – and a serial killer.
Morgan had said that a string of coincidences followed Riley wherever he went, but it was a string of bodies that had followed Hayes.
He couldn't bring himself to feel sorry for the murdered man, no matter how hard he tried.
"Does that mean he deserved it?" Riley asked, meeting his gaze again.
"I don't know," John replied.
When they got home, he pulled the photographs and the flash drive from their hiding place in one of the desk drawers. While Sherlock disassembled the drive and dissolved its components in acid, John stood over the fireplace, watching bright flames flicker as glossy paper curled and melted. He let the last little bits drop into the fire where the embers glowed orange and dulled to ash.
The ache in his ribs and the lingering unsteady feeling finally won out again and John took the paracetamol that Sherlock presented to him with a pointed look before stretching out on the sofa. Carefully, so as not to jostle him, Sherlock settled behind him, fitting his long body around John's shorter one with practiced ease. John smiled slightly and turned his head for a soft kiss before drifting off, bathed in the lights from the tree and snug in Sherlock's embrace.