-ooo-

Faint muscular spasms accompanied John's slow breathing pattern. In his sleeping state, John's face was truly honest, missing the restraints of social behaviour. Maybe that was why Mary enjoyed so much looking at her husband's sleeping expressions. Like a child, when he fell into the deeper stages and dreamt, a very young looking John would allow faint smiles, frowns, quirks of the brow that could fill a book with stories. And Mary had learnt to sort the plots by glance, always keeping an eye out for that one expression that wouldn't fit the pattern. One of blankness, that usually preceded John's persistent nightmares. Even if Mary knew that it was useless to try to wake John at that point. He was doomed to repeat it from start to end, endless times, relive the ghosts he carried deep inside him, the ones he felt it was only right to harbour in his heart. Mary believed that no amount of carefully considered therapy could ever part John from his nightmares so long as in his core he felt them to be natural, right. For denying them would be to deny a part of himself.

Mary saw none of that today, for which she was grateful. John's expression was young and carried a hint of a sweet smile. Mary fancied he could be smiling at her in his dream, and allowed herself to replicate his smile.

'Mary.' Her name came as a surprise, yanking her from those intimate reflections. Immediately her own expression grew heavier, guarded, as she turned her head to face Sherlock.

'Sherlock. You brought him back', she noted, inexpressive.

The great detective frowned, confused, then glanced at John, slumped in a sofa of Mycroft's protected house. Arguably England's most secure location at the moment. Brought John back, she meant. Well, of course, he'd never leave John a captive to an unknown plan!

Mary sighed. Sherlock could be a genius according to John, but often he missed out on the most basic social clues. She couldn't help but smile and nearly chuckle. He was like a child and only John could have the true patience help him along in a non-judgemental way. ("No, Sherlock, we don't tell people that they've put on weight... Exception made for your brother, of course.")

'John is alright, Sherlock', Mary cut to the chase, with a sigh.

The tall man nodded, with a trace of vulnerability in his expression. Mary could read right through his momentary fragility. John was a fixed point in a changing universe for the both of them, a steady beat they had both grown accustomed to. Having him gone had taken a toll on both of them in ways that John wouldn't ever recognise, and that objectively it didn't quite make sense.

'Have you solved it already, Sherlock?' Mary whispered softly.

'Yes.'

'Are you going to tell them?'

(Them. Tell them, she said.) Mary had reached the solution to the case as well. John had chosen, in the whole of London, one of the sharpest minds for his companion, and it was paying off.

'Yes.'

'And have you got a plan?'

Sherlock offered her a blank smile. (Working on it.)

-ooo-

'Hey, Molly, are you alright?' John asked softly, as he opened her room's door after her permission, not long after his small nap.

'John', she smiled honestly, putting down a book still set in the early pages despite the couple of hours they had been on the secure location. 'I'm sure I should be asking you that.'

The former army doctor shrugged. 'Nothing I couldn't handle, no big deal... So, hm... I came here to apologise for the time you've spent with only half a team protecting you. I tried to get them away from you, Sherlock and Mary to keep you three safe.'

'You're apologising?' she realised in a tense voice, an angry smile creeping up on her expression.

'Yes, I am. You came to us for help, not be left with little coverage as you zoomed into cover after an attack.'

'You're worrying about me?' she identified.

'Yes', John confirmed, honestly confused.

'How about Mary and Sherlock?'

'I've talked it over with Mary, of course, I—'

'And Sherlock? Do you realise how horrible it was for him, John?'

'Well, I suppose, I didn't mean to—'

'He was worried sick, John!'

John's expression turned strained at that point. 'It was the right thing to do, Molly. I don't regret it. I do regret that Greg got hurt in the process, though.'

'How could you do that to Sherlock?' She felt that her control was breaking and she was about to scream at the army captain.

'I really didn't mean to mess up so badly and get caught', he admitted, embarrassed. 'I figured I had good chances to divert the enemies by engaging them from the left flank and then—'

'He went on his own, with no backup, to rescue you, John. Can't you see it?' Molly worried with a sad expression. John just got quiet, still standing string in his place, facing her. There were a hundred things he was keeping back from saying to Molly. He wouldn't allow himself to say them. Not before, and not now.

Molly had seen that stoic pained look before, more than once. It usually preceded the abrupt ending to their conversation. In these occasions, Molly couldn't help but to feel guilty. That in her Reichenbach secrecy to keep Sherlock protected there was something that got broken inside John.

Molly would have assumed that John would punch Sherlock (metaphorically or literally) upon his return, and lose his blind trust on the man. In reality, John had indeed punched Sherlock, but never lost the trust on his mad friend. He had lost trust on himself as Sherlock's friend. Loyally, John would remain at Sherlock's side for as long as he could be of use to the grand detective. But there was a damaged part of John sabotaging himself now.

'He shouldn't have gone', said John, not really meaning it. Then he added bluntly: 'Sherlock is like a dog with a bone when he's got a mystery. He won't abandon it. In the end, I don't think he got any good leads out of my rescue. It must have been a waste of his time.'

Molly gulped. She could scream at the blond man, she could grab him and shake him, so frustrated she felt. Why was Sherlock so incapable of just having stopped being the detective for a bit, and rescue John for John's sake, undeniably? No more of that nonsense multitasking?

'Most of all', John carried on like nothing much, 'he should have stayed with you, Molly. You came for his help and he should have stayed by your side. He won't ever say it, but I will: I'm sorry he left you alone, Molly', he apologised as if it was his own fault.

That was just too much for Molly. Stepping angrily on the floor, she walked across the room towards John and halted an inch away from the very stunned former soldier. Her closed fists shaking by her side, she hissed: 'What Sherlock did, he did to protect you, John. If you ever doubt that, just remember the Reinchenbach case.'

John smirked bitterly, not at all impressed. 'I do remember it. Only too well.'

(John was impossible!) 'He wanted to protect you.'

John's smirk turned self-depreciative as he slowly tilted his head sideways. 'Was that when he jumped off in front of me or in the two years he let me visit an empty grave?'

'It was during those two years that his lie kept you alive, John. You were followed, studied, for signs of knowledge about Sherlock's whereabouts. Every time you went to visit an empty grave, someone was eavesdropping to judge your sincerity as you spoke towards a headstone. Every time they got convinced you didn't know the truth, it kept you safe a while longer.'

'How do you know I...'

'Sherlock told me about that the day you asked him not to be dead.'

John faced away briskly, hurt that his sincere speech of loss and pain had been broadcasted to Molly, and who knew to whom else? (Mycroft? His men?)

'It was the assuredness that you were okay that kept Sherlock alive and focused. In the end, that allowed him to come back home.'

'I wasn't okay', he despised under his breath.

'Yes. I know. But I lied', she sustained, bravely. 'I lied to you, I lied to Sherlock as well. Both lies were the only words I could have uttered that kept you both going.'

'Hm?'

'Had I told you the truth, it'd have crushed you. Your pain was too raw, John.'

John's jaw just clenched tighter.

'I would have been happy for him to be alive. How can you doubt that?'

'As it is, after three years from St Bart's, you're still shattered.'

'I'm fine', he retorted, angrily.

'You're lying to protect yourself', she was blunt. Sadly, she didn't seem to be able to reach John. All her finally freed words seemed to be bringing further pain, instead of healing by pushing out into the light old trapped dark ghosts.

With one last effort, Molly recalled: 'He kept speaking to you, when you weren't there. When I visited him, I mean.'

That brief weekend getaway to Paris, John recalled. It had seemed slightly adventurous for homely Molly Hooper at the time, but John had thought nothing more of it.

'He has full conversations with people who aren't in the room. He often did, at Baker Street.'

'I only ever heard him addressing you, John, just as if you were in the room.'

'Old habits.'

She frowned, recalling: 'This time it was different from the old days. It was like he sensed your answers as well. This time he had full conversations with you. I don't think he did that before. I think he missed you that much.'

'I was a helpful tool in a few of his cases, a sounding board, Molly.'

'And when he had to leave you behind, he carried them on, pretending you were there. He never had me, or Greg, as an imaginary friend, John. Only you filled that gap.'

John's face was painfully breaking. 'What do you mean?' he whispered.

'You gave Sherlock the strength to come back.'

'No, I—'

She cut him off: 'He came back because he heard you ask it to his grave. He hadn't intended to do so. He had it all planned out. Greg would believe in the official report of his death, being a police officer he wouldn't have doubt the medical examiner's report. Mrs Hudson would buy into it as well, she always knew you had tough dark times. You, John, you wouldn't accept it. You've seen the worst, and every comeback after it. If you had just heard it, glanced through the medical report, you wouldn't have accepted it to be true. You might just spend your life searching for him. And then what? Either you got the attention of Jim's people and they finished you off on their way to Sherlock, or you'd waste away your life in the pursue of a ghost.' Molly shook her head, tiredly. 'I'm not defending Sherlock having jumped off from a rooftop, dramatically, in front of you. I couldn't ever do that. I'm telling you that he chose such a dramatic and definite visual way of breaking apart from all of us and put you there as a spectator because it was the only way he could convince you of the lie. And it worked', she smiled sadly, 'although I don't know to which extent, if you went on to his grave to ask him to come back. Maybe a part of you actually knew. Maybe you just couldn't accept it, no matter how rational you tried to be. I know Sherlock wanted to return before the time, and Mycroft managed to convince him in the end that he needed to keep going to protect you and us.'

'Mycroft?' John repeated in a murmur.

'You see, Moriarty had shattered Sherlock's image in London, maybe even in the world. Mycroft had a whole new identity planned for his brother, far away, a fresh start. But then Sherlock heard your request and realised it wasn't just selfishness his desire to remain Sherlock Holmes of Baker Street. He fought for you, what he had selflessly given up for himself, John. You're the reason why he came back. Not me. And you may never truly forgive me, no matter how much rationally you wish to do so. But I'll feel I've done you right a bit more now I told you all of this, John.'

The soldier remained frozen to the spot, trembling rounded blue eyes and troubled brow were the only signs that he had drunk every single word of Molly's speech. Where had all those words gone inside him was a different matter altogether.

'I was never that angry at you, Molly', John said at last. 'I was grateful, for all you gave Sherlock.'

She nodded. She knew John had tried, every single day after the discovery of the lie, to rationalise and forgive her. And the moment she had come to the clinic to ask for his help, he had offered it generously, meaningfully. (John was a good man.) He hadn't held her ransom to her lie, but he had his best friend. She could see it clearly even if John couldn't.