Chapter Twenty One

When they stepped back out into the entrance hall, John was still furious. However, he kept his anger in, trying not to show his annoyance. Maybe it was just this place and everything that had happened here and he was just overreacting because he did not know how else to cope with everything.

"Do you want to get some tea?" Sherlock sounded unsure, as if he didn't know what to do with an upset John. And John shook his head, wanting to kick something. Sherlock did not try again.

They made their way down to the wardrobe and Sherlock asked for his coat. They had stuffed it in a bag with a note to return it to its owner, and Sherlock pulled it out.

For one second his eyes moved over the fabric as if he was looking for invisible traces of something. Apparently satisfied, he smiled to himself and pushed his hand into the right pocket, producing his phone.

Then he checked for messages, deleted those from Mycroft and pushed it into the back pocket of his pants. John wasn't sure why Sherlock had been so insisting of getting his phone back. Well, maybe there were some messages on there that he wanted to keep, that he would occasionally go to reread just because. No, just because he had felt the urge to do that with old messages he had gotten from Sherlock, it didn't mean that Sherlock would be that sentimental. He looked at Sherlock. "Can we go?"

"One more thing." Sherlock looked at him, apparently still a little unsure of how to behave around John, and started walking up the stairs.

"Sherlock, we could have taken the lift."

"No, it's fine. The wound doesn't hurt anymore."

"If you say so." With a sigh he followed him.

They were both out of breath when they reached the top floor. John remembered what now seemed to have been a hallucination. He was unsure whether he should tell Sherlock about it, but then again he had heard him scream out his name in his sleep. There wasn't really anything that could bare his soul more than he had already done unconsciously. And Sherlock did not seem to mind particularly, which had a very calming effect on him.

Sherlock leaned against the rail and looked down. "He escaped with a helicopter. We should be able to trace any helicopter flight that went in and out of London that night. Why hasn't Lestrade started working on this case?"

John held onto the rail and leaned over, enjoying the quick rush of vertigo as he looked down. "Because this is more than he can handle; because Moriarty is more than we can handle."

"Do you think?"

"Yes, he knows something is off. Lestrade isn't stupid." Sherlock gave him a look that said otherwise, John ignored it. "He knows that this is personal, and I'm sure he's figured out by now that you are the centre of all of this. He will start asking questions and you can't avoid answering them forever."

Sherlock walked a few paces and then turned back around. "If Moriarty is so smart, why did he not succeed?"

"In killing us, you mean?" John threw his hands in the air. "Sherlock, this is not a game anymore. This is not a puzzle that you can solve by looking hard enough. This is a man who wants to hurt you in every way possible. He's a sadistic pervert who would do anything to see you suffer just to prove a point." He tried not to yell, but Sherlock made it very hard. "You are different. You are smarter than him, yes, and you do things because they personally interest you, but you also care, even if you pretend not to. You care about being alive, you care about knowing things, about finding answers. Your ultimate goal is to know and understand. His ultimate goal is to destroy you. And while you'd still rely on your brain, he relies on guns and bombs. You play by rules, he doesn't, don't you understand?" John was mad again, and he knew he should just leave before his need to destroy something became overpowering.

"John, calm down." It was an order, and somehow it brought him back down to earth. "Don't be angry." Something in the way in which Sherlock said it made his heart ache. "I'll think of something."

"No, Sherlock, don't you understand? I don't want you to think of something. I want him gone and I want you to go back to dealing with proper criminals, which was risky enough in itself."

Sherlock looked at him blankly. It was obvious he did not understand what was happening with John. This was uncharted territory and he couldn't quite figure him out.

"Why are we up here?" John asked, suddenly remembering that Sherlock must have brought him up here with a purpose. He turned his back to Sherlock, adamant to calm down. He should not let himself think of the possibilities of how things could have ended. The shock seemed to be worse than he had expected, but he had to deal with it and move on.

"This was where you were, wasn't it?"

"When?"

"When you realised he had me."

"Oh."John closed his eyes, allowing his memory to go back to the moment when his world seemed to tumble and fall.

"It's okay, John." He was close now, close enough to touch him, but he didn't.

"How do you know?"

"You're a soldier. You would chose a strategic point that would serve both the purpose of being able to see as much of the hall as possible, and be far away enough to be safe."

"Talk me through it," John asked. "I didn't dare look. I thought he would shoot you as soon as I looked."

"He saw right away that it wasn't you. It was the first time that he seemed somewhat surprised, but, of course, he took it as a challenge."

"Did you know?"

"When I saw him, yes. I don't know what would have happened if I hadn't been sure." There is was again, the bitterness, and John felt guilty for letting his emotions getting the upper hand when Sherlock had been in an equally awful situation. "And then he sent his apes away to get the helicopter, and I knew you'd be in trouble up there if you didn't move down again. Because of that I knew that you would probably move down there again, and wait for us. I wasn't certain, but I hoped, and at the same time I wanted you to just stay away. I don't know what he would have done if you hadn't shown up, but I really wanted you to be gone instead of being right there. I'm not even sure if he would have killed me…"

John swallowed. "Do you think he will try again?"

"Most definitely."

"Promise me that you will tell me if you hear anything, anything at all." He was serious, and Sherlock had probably understood that he could not avoid John's involvement. "He tried to kill me more than once, so no matter how personal this is for you, he made it personal for me too."

Sherlock nodded, obviously not quite satisfied with John's request, but ready to accept John's involvement.

"And you will answer my texts and messages when you are still able to do it so I know you're still bloody alive."

"John, I…"

"Sherlock, I can't go through that again. At times I thought I was going mad because I thought I was imagining things and next thing I know is that all my worst fears become reality. Well, you weren't dead, but close."

"Will you still leave me messages?"

John didn't know what to make of Sherlock's question. He stared at him, uncomprehending.

"Your messages were really very … ." He was at a loss for words again, and John could almost hear him insert 'nice' in the slot of the term that he apparently couldn't think of. He wished he could guess what he really wanted to say.

"Can we go?" John knew he would not be able to stand around here any longer. The day had started off so lovely, and now he was confused and angry and something he couldn't quite place. Without waiting for Sherlock's answer he started to walk down the stairs. Only when he left the building did he turn around to see if Sherlock had followed him. He had, and he had exchanged his coats, now wearing his usual garment and looking much more like himself.

"John, wait!"

"What?"

"I'm sorry."

John looked up, unhappy. "No, no, I am sorry. I shouldn't have lost it like I did. I apologise."

Sherlock held his gaze but started to smile, confusing John. He didn't say anything else but walked past him and called a cab.

Back home, Sherlock left on his coat, and John wondered if he had been wrong about Sherlock's apparent indifference to random objects. He dropped his own coat on the desk and went to make tea. When he came back he found Sherlock on the phone.

"Sherlock, you're not ready to get involved in something new."

Sherlock gave him the strangest look and lowered his phone. "I wasn't talking to Lestrade."

"Who were you talking to?"

"Nobody."

"Sherlock, don't be ridiculous. You were calling someone."

"I was not calling anyone."

John frowned. Why was Sherlock being childish, and why was he bothered so much by the thought that Sherlock was eager to get back to work.

"What then was it that you were doing?"

"I was checking my voice mail."

He did not need to say anything else. Judging by his behavior he was uncomfortable telling John the truth, and that truth did involve neither Mycroft nor Lestrade.

"Sherlock, if you want to listen to me talk, I'm right here." He waved his hand at him. Was that a blush creeping up on Sherlock's neck? John didn't quite know what to do with himself, so he went back into the kitchen, and this time he was prepared when he turned around and Sherlock was leaning against the table.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For what you said in the manuscript room."

John smiled. "I wanted to kill them."

And they both had to laugh, which was nice, because it made the anger he had felt seem a little less real. John navigated himself around his friend and carried the two mugs into the living room. "But seriously, I really hate when they do that to you."

Sherlock stood behind him, unmoving. When John turned around he saw that he was moved by his words, but differently than he had been at the library. Back there he had just been surprised by John's passionate outburst, but now he had said it again, level headed and calm.

This time it was Sherlock who asked for the hug. It was almost cute, John thought as he pulled him into his arms. And this time the hug was anything but awkward. Even though Sherlock still wore his coat, they seemed to fit perfectly together. He wrapped his arms around his waist, making sure not to apply too much pressure on Sherlock's left side and Sherlock's arms were wrapped around his shoulders. John found that he could tuck his head underneath Sherlock's chin, which he did, pressing his cheek against the warm skin of his throat and again, he felt one hand coming up to cup his head. He knew this should be weird, but it was too comfortable and calming to really worry about it. He inhaled and pulled him closer, fighting the urge to slip his hands into Sherlock's coat to be even closer to him.

"Why haven't we done this before?" Sherlock asked, his voice a rumble in his chest. "This is extraordinarily relaxing."

John smiled against his skin. "I know." He allowed his eyes to fall shut and for a minute he just enjoyed the immediacy to his friend, finally contented that he was still there. Then, with a sigh, he pulled away, catching Sherlock's eye. "You okay?"

Sherlock nodded and then walked to the couch and let himself fall on it, grunting as he realised that John's warning had not just been an empty threat. John shook his head, grinning and handed Sherlock his tea. "Drink!" he ordered.

Sherlock smiled up at him and used his stomach as a makeshift table for his cup and closed his eyes.