"Each one of us here today will at one time in our lives look upon a loved one who is in need and ask the same question: 'We are willing to help, Lord, but what, if anything, is needed?' For it is true we can seldom help those closest to us. Either we don't know what part of ourselves to give or, more often than not, the part we have to give is not wanted. And so it is those we live with and love and should know who elude us. But we can still love them - we can love completely without complete understanding."
-Norman Maclean, A River Runs Through It & Other Stories


July 2014

"He's in there," Lestrade said quietly.

Sherlock followed his gaze. There was Lestrade's office; Sherlock looked across the hall through the glass wall and door to see John sitting in a chair perpendicular to Lestrade's desk, facing the wall. He was sitting very straight, both feet on the floor, hands on his knees. His left profile was facing them, and the ragged scar stood out on his pale face like a brand. His features were set in an expressionless mask.

Sherlock had got on the first train back to London after leaving West Sussex. When the train stopped in Crawley there was a delay while two men in suits boarded and made their way to Sherlock's compartment. Sherlock raked them over with his eyes as they entered: unarmed, £800 suits, meticulously groomed nails and hair, expensive sunglasses, the right-handed man wearing fine-grained leather driving gloves. Glancing back through the window, Sherlock spotted a black Jaguar parked in the fire lane in front of the station. Knowing Mycroft sent them, he rose at once to accompany the two agents before they could speak.

Mycroft did occasionally have his uses – once they were settled in the car and on their way, the one agent (he introduced himself as "Plummer" – Sherlock promptly deleted this information) was able to provide the detective with electronic copies of John's statement, the early findings from the crime scene, and a possible name for their elusive assassin – John Sebastian Moran*.

"We had already created a profile for an assassin that was very likely ex-military, a former officer who had likely been, shall we say, invited to resign his commission, aged late forties to early fifties, left-handed and a large-game hunter with a gambling addiction." Mycroft, who met Sherlock at the Yard, was now filling him and Greg in on the information he had compiled in the approximately three hours since the attack at Baker Street.

"Obviously an accomplished marksman with unusually steady hands," Mycroft went on, voice pitched low. He, too, was surreptitiously watching John as he spoke. "I'm sure before long we would have arrived at Colonel Moran – known informally as 'Jack' or 'Tiger Jack', formerly of the 1st Bangalore Pioneers – but Major Sholto solidified the identification."

"Why 'Tiger?'" Lestrade asked quietly. He too had eyes on the still figure in his office.

"Moran indulged his penchant for hunting large game while he was abroad whenever possible," Mycroft explained. "Eight years ago, while serving in an advisory capacity during a training mission with one of the Gorkha regiments in India, one of the Colonel's men was supposedly attacked by a tiger. Moran fired at the animal, wounding it, and then proceeded to follow it down a drain in order to finish it off."†

Lestrade whistled. "Sounds bloody reckless to me. And aren't tigers endangered?"

"The Colonel had a reputation for recklessness, indeed," Mycroft said, dragging his eyes away from John to glance at the file in Lestrade's hands. "His admirers described him as having 'nerves of steel,' a rather kinder term for it."

Nerves of steel. The hair on the back of Sherlock's neck prickled oddly, but he didn't move his eyes from John.

"As for the tiger," Mycroft continued, "Moran has, ostensibly, legitimately gratified his passion for hunting with allowable large game including bear, kudu, antelope, hartebeest, moose and the like. In fact, it was his desire to increase the challenge to himself in this area that led him to trade the rifle for the crossbow during his safaris. But given that tigers are unlikely to attack a human unprovoked, it does bear out the rumors that the Colonel and some of the men in his regiment regularly indulged in poaching."

Closing the file, Greg swore softly and tapped it against his other hand. "Mycroft…this is the record of an honorable solider!"

"On the surface, yes," Mycroft said testily. "But there were too many…shall we say, disturbing incidents. Incidents where he ordered or even led new recruits into battle under questionable conditions, and accusations of insubordination. The difficulty was in proving such allegations, and Moran was both bold and, perhaps, fortunate – his actions admittedly produced high amounts of casualties, but they also produced positive results. It wasn't until his name was connected with instances of Middle Eastern prisoners being tortured and abused that he was finally given an SNLR*† discharge."

Lestrade glanced back through his office window at John again. "And it was Sholto who was instrumental in bringing that about, you say?"

"Yes," Mycroft replied. "Major Sholto is – was – an honorable, by-the-book soldier: stern, no nonsense, committed, and able to divorce himself from emotion in the performance of his duty. But he was not a cruel man. The chances Moran took with his own men concerned him, but his fears were deemed groundless because of the results these actions produced. No doubt Moran's distinguished background – the son of an ambassador, educated at Eton and, later, Oxford – made his superiors reluctant to take Sholto's word over Moran's."

"No doubt," Sherlock murmured, curling his lip.

Mycroft went on as though his brother had not spoken. "At any rate, Moran's authorization of the use of torture to extract information from prisoners disgusted Sholto, and with the media attention that was given the topic during the time, Moran was, ultimately, discharged under less than honorable conditions."

Sherlock added somewhat bitterly, "Though because he could not be directly linked to the actual execution of the crimes, claiming his orders had not extended to the extreme methods employed, he was not charged with war crimes himself."

"Well, quite," Mycroft admitted.

"So how did he wind up working with Moriarty?" Greg broke in.

Mycroft paused before answering, his eyes still fixed on John.

"It was a blow for Moran when he was dismissed from the army," the elder Holmes said finally. "Additionally, the SNLR on his record ensured that finding gainful employment geared to his, shall we say, unique talents would be all but impossible. Bitter and depressed, he found redress in another of his preferred pastimes: cards. It became a way for him to acquire funds; unfortunately his skill at cards did not equal his skill at marksmanship, and before long he was heavily indebted to some of the least savory money lenders that frequented London's underworld at the time."

"Which is when Moriarty approached him," Sherlock commented, finally turning away from the window to face Lestrade and his brother.

"Indeed," Mycroft acknowledged, inclining his head. "Moriarty recruited Moran for select assassinations – he was most likely the shooter of General Shan during what Dr. Watson so quaintly named 'The Blind Banker' case – and eventually became chief of staff of Moriarty's criminal empire."

"Bloody hell," Lestrade said quietly. "What a fall from grace."

"Moran no doubt saw it as a rise in fortune, Detective Inspector," Mycroft said coolly. "Part of what made Moriarty so dangerous was his ability to psychologically manipulate people. He recognized Moran's abilities, saw that he was embittered at being mustered out of the army, and gave him what he craved most – a purpose, and an outlet for his propensity for strategy and violence. As far as Moran was concerned, Moriarty gave him a second chance at life, and in return, he gave Moriarty his own single-minded loyalty."

Sherlock shifted uneasily and glanced back through the office window at John.

"I don't understand something," Greg said after pondering this for a moment.

"Just one thing?" Sherlock said snidely.

Lestrade chose to ignore this and addressed his question to Mycroft. "If Moran's such an uncanny marksman, how did he manage to miss John? And why didn't he take a second shot after having missed him the first time?"

"Because, Inspector, I don't believe Moran was targeting John," Mycroft replied heavily. "Sholto certainly thought so when he caught sight of the shooter in the window of the empty flat across the street from 221 Baker Street, and died thinking he was protecting John. But I believe that Moran has been watching 221 for some time, and when he saw Sholto with John, he made a spur-of-the-moment decision to take his revenge on the man who, as he sees it, ruined his career."

"He tipped his hand, then," Lestrade said. "If he was targeting Sherlock from that location, he won't be able to now."

"If Moran had been targeting me at Baker Street, Detective Inspector, I'd be dead by now," Sherlock observed coldly.

"Well, you said yourself that he's had John in his sights several times already," Lestrade retorted. "The night you met Moriarty at the pool, and later at Bart's on the day you jumped and Moriarty shot himself…obviously it's not John who interests him, so…"

"No, perhaps not," Sherlock murmured, almost as though he was talking to himself. "But there's something…something he's planning, something I've missed." He ground his teeth in frustration.

"Be that as it may, we now have something to work with," Mycroft broke into his brother's brooding smoothly.

"And I have a forensics team going through that empty flat with a fine tooth comb," Lestrade put in.

"Hopefully a team made up of your least inept officers," Sherlock sniffed. Lestrade rolled his eyes.

"And on that note, I will return to my office," Mycroft said. "You may keep the file, Detective Inspector; I expect you'll keep me apprised of any developments."

"Likewise, I hope," Lestrade risked saying, and Mycroft offered a noncommittal smile as he turned to go.

"Of course you'll keep me apprised, I'm sure, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft smiled faintly again. "Of course." He left without another word.

Greg scowled after him, then turned to Sherlock.

"All right, Sherlock. We've already talked to Mrs. Hudson, and once the forensics team has compiled their report I'll see you get a copy. In the meantime…John's made his statement; I think it's best you take him home now." He started towards his office.

"Lestrade."

Greg paused, puzzled, turning to face the younger man. Was that a note of…uncertainty in Sherlock's voice?

"You wouldn't want to come along now and see how the team's getting on yourself?" Sherlock asked hesitantly.

Lestrade frowned. Sherlock knew how the procedures worked, for all he might claim to have forgotten. "Wish I could, but I'll be tied up here for awhile. I'll come by later tonight, though; bring the report myself. Maybe some dinner too, yeah?"

Sherlock looked at him searchingly, then nodded once. "Do."

Lestrade offered him a wan smile. "Right." He sighed and tiredly ran a hand over his face as they started for his office.

Just outside the office door, Lestrade paused, turning to Sherlock who was uneasily staring at John through the glass.

"Listen, Sherlock," Greg said hesitantly. He waited until Sherlock was looking at him again before he continued. "John's pretty shaken up. He's…this is just one more thing, and, well…" He sighed. "Just…look after him, all right?"

The detective stared at him for a long moment, feeling uncertain, even afraid.

"I…don't know what to do," Sherlock confessed, his voice low.

Lestrade blinked, astounded at this admission of ignorance from the proudest, most arrogant man he knew. Covering quickly, he said simply, "Just be there for him, Sherlock."

Sherlock scowled. "Spare me the platitudes, Lestrade. What does that even mean?"

Lestrade huffed. "You're the genius. You figure it out."

And before Sherlock could protest, Lestrade pushed open the door to his office, shoved the lanky detective through the doorway, and stepped back into the corridor.

"I'll leave you to it," Lestrade murmured, and, nodding to John, he pulled the door shut behind him.

Sherlock stood frozen and uncertain. His heart hammered in his chest. His tongue felt like wood.

John, who hadn't moved when he came in, now slowly looked round at him. When their eyes met, Sherlock inwardly winced. Though pale, John's face was perfectly expressionless, but the look in his eyes spoke volumes. It was as though the deep blue was a vast expanse of stormy sea, and John himself a tiny speck on a raft in the middle of it, far from reach.

What to say. What to say. Whatever he said, Sherlock knew it would be wrong, it was always wrong

In the end he fell back on convention. His tongue loosened and, stupid and pointless as it was, he said simply, "I'm sorry."

John blinked, slowly. The thousand-yard stare faded and he seemed to see Sherlock. He nodded once in acknowledgement.

So far, so good, then, Sherlock thought with a slight sense of relief."Let's go home," he ventured.

John rose to accompany him without speaking.

As they crossed the bullpen, Sherlock noticed that it was very quiet…every Yarder present – officers and support employee alike – was watching them as they passed. One by one they nodded to John, a few murmuring respectfully, "Dr. Watson." John, close behind Sherlock with his eyes cast down, didn't seem to notice, but Sherlock did – it was a vast difference from the suspicion and speculation with which the doctor had been viewed previously. He cast his mind about to ascertain the reason, and it came to him at once – they were grateful to John for saving Lestrade's life at the mill.

A dull lot, but at least they have wit enough to value one of the few competent detectives among them, he thought grudgingly.


The cab ride back to Baker Street was silent, John gazing unseeingly out the window, Sherlock taking advantage of the presence of the cabbie as an excuse to not speak, instead using the time to try to figure out how he was supposed to behave when they arrived at their destination. He did not know what he was to do with a shocked and grieving John. He was not accustomed to being called upon to provide support to others. He was not used to thinking of others too deeply on an emotional level at all.

Actually, I'm not accustomed to having a friend.

And then, seemingly unbidden a memory surfaced – one Sherlock thought he had deleted. On Christmas Eve in 2010 he had received a text message from Irene Adler that had him believing she was dead; a few hours later Sherlock, Mycroft at his side, had identified what he had believed to be her body at St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Sherlock had been…perturbed…by the supposed death of The Woman. She had got to him in a way no other woman ever had. Though no match for his own, the workings of her clever mind ran similarly to his, and to him she would always be the Woman.

It was not that he felt any emotion akin to love for Irene Adler, he told himself. All emotions, romantic love in particular, threatened to upset the balance of a precise mind like his. Though such feelings were excellent for drawing the veil from the motives and actions of others, as a lover Sherlock believed he would place himself in a false position; to allow such sentiment in was to introduce distraction, distraction that might throw doubt upon all his mental results. A crack in one of his own slides would not be more disturbing than such an emotion in a nature like his.

And yet –there remained but one woman to him: Irene Adler. In Sherlock's eyes she eclipsed and predominated the whole of her sex.**

So, yes…the idea that she was gone from the world was one he had found somewhat…unsettling.

His mind full of the void The Woman's loss left in his world, Sherlock had returned to Baker Street alone. Mycroft had not accompanied him, and he had been glad – he had not wanted company.

When Sherlock arrived at the flat he had found John sitting in his armchair, reading a book (or at least pretending to be reading). He had forgotten John, but had not been surprised to find him there, or disappointed. He had glanced around, seen the miniscule signs that his flatmate and his landlady had been going through his things

(searching for drugs)

and had been irritated. He had responded to John's ubiquitous query ("You okay?") with a biting remark and had gone to his own room, slamming the door behind him and shutting the doctor out. He had wanted to be alone.

That is – he thought he had wanted to be alone. Now, glancing sideways at John beside him, still staring through the window, Sherlock wondered – had he really?

Sherlock had retreated to his room not so much out of his irritation with John and Mrs. Hudson for searching the flat for drugs, but because he had not wanted to answer John's question

(You okay?)

or the ones that would be sure to follow.

(What are you thinking? Can I help? Do you want to talk about it?)

Much to his own annoyance, Sherlock hadn't really known what he was thinking; there was nothing John could do to help, and Sherlock certainly didn't want to talk about it. And so he had escaped to his room and closed out John and everything else.

In retrospect, though, Sherlock realized that John had helped him. Thinking back to that snowy Christmas Eve, Sherlock realized now that, as he had made his way back to Baker Street, he had not so much forgotten John as he had taken John's thereness for granted, much like the flat itself. It occurred to him now that he would have had no right to think so – hadn't John had a date that night? Sherlock thought he remembered the presence of the boring teacher (or had it been the one with the nose?). And yet he had not been surprised to see John in his chair waiting for him. In fact, he would have been surprised had John not been in his chair waiting for him. Surprised and – Sherlock furrowed his brows – yes, disappointed. The flat was his refuge, but it would have been a cold and

(lonely)

empty one had John not been there. And though Sherlock had sequestered himself in his room and then his Mind Palace, he had always been aware, on some level, of John's presence in the flat. He had known without even thinking about it that John had not gone to bed that night, lingering in the sitting room to be as close to Sherlock as possible without invading his space. Though the other man had never looked up from his book when Sherlock had come out to use the bathroom, Sherlock had been aware of John's awareness of him, and his readiness to put the book away the moment Sherlock indicated he wanted or needed his attention. In the morning, Sherlock had partially emerged from his Mind Palace to find himself in his armchair – and to find a mug of steaming tea and a plate of still-warm toast on the table next to him. He had known without thinking about it who had put it there, and he had known without looking that, while keeping a respectful distance, John was not far off. He knew it because John was never far off. Sherlock could count on him being there like he could count on the sun rising, whether it showed through the clouds or not.

Sherlock realized now that, while he had taken it for granted at the time, he had counted on that solid, steady, yet (mostly) silent presence. Mycroft with his judgment and his admonitions about caring would have made him feel he had to present a certain front; Mrs. Hudson with her tea and tears and sympathy would have distracted him. Sherlock could ignore John while being strengthened by his steadfast presence at the same time. John helped him to think – or not think, just as Sherlock liked. The doctor had a grand gift for silence, and, during his time away, Sherlock had missed John's simple, stalwart presence as much as he had his actual interactions with his friend – sometimes more.

Was this what being there entailed? Sherlock wondered.

He risked another surreptitious glance at John. The thought of trying to verbalize comforting platitudes made him feel uneasy; the thought of patting John's back and saying "I'm here for you" made him feel awkward. But John had not done these things when it was Sherlock who was reeling from the violent death of someone he deemed important – he had simply been there. It followed, then, that maybe the same John who had been there – who had once miraculously seemed to enjoy Sherlock's presence enough to prefer his friendship above all others – would not need those things himself, but only for Sherlock to be present.

In short, for Sherlock to be there.

That he could do, the detective decided as the cab pulled up to the kerb in front of 221. Yes…he could do that.

And so for once Sherlock paid the cabbie himself before ushering John indoors quickly, not allowing him to linger on the step where Sholto had died.

In the hallway, he paused to hang up his jacket in order to give himself time to think. 221c had only one bedroom; John no doubt would have offered this bedroom to Sholto, who would in turn have refused it on the grounds that John, with his bad shoulder, needed to sleep in a proper bed. Therefore it was easy to deduce that Sholto's things would spread about the sitting room, there for John to see as soon as the doctor entered the flat. Better, then, for John not to enter the flat until someone had gathered Sholto's belongings together.

Sherlock was wondering how this could be managed when, with impeccable timing, Mrs. Hudson, having heard them come in emerged from 221a. She still appeared shaken herself, and when she saw them her eyes at once filled with tears.

"Oh, boys. Oh, John."

She put her arms around John, who had just hung up his jacket. Still expressionless and dry-eyed, he returned the hug in a painfully perfunctory way.

"Some tea would be lovely, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock broke in before she could say anything else. The landlady drew away from John and looked at him. She seemed to read something in his eyes.

"Of course, dear. Would you…?"

"Upstairs, I think," Sherlock said quickly. John looked at him, looked toward the door of 221c, swallowed tightly and gave a slight nod. Without a word he began to ascend the stairs to 221b, his right leg dragging slightly. Sherlock waited until he was nearly the whole way up before turning to Mrs. Hudson.

"Major Sholto's belongings," he began.

She saw at once where he was going with it.

"I'll gather them together and settle them on the far side of the couch until John's ready to deal with them," she said quickly in a low voice.

Sherlock looked at her proudly. Clever old woman.

Aloud, he added, "John has a prescription for muscle relaxants. Bring them up with the tea, he took a hard knock to his bad shoulder when Sholto tackled him to the ground. You'll probably find them in the bathroom or, barring that, a kitchen cupboard."

Confident she would do as he directed, he turned without waiting for a reply and followed John up the stairs to 221b.

Upon entering the flat he found John already seated on the couch, one hand propping up his head as he gazed blankly ahead of him. He looked so lost and alone it made Sherlock's chest hurt. The detective cleared his throat uncomfortably and, after a moment's hesitation, went and sat in his own chair.

As the silence stretched out between them, Sherlock glanced surreptitiously at his friend, who had not moved or acknowledged his entry. John's face was carefully expressionless. Sherlock knew that expressionless face was put on to hide something, and he thought he could deduce what.

"I hope you're not being so tedious as to blame yourself," he said abruptly. John blinked and looked at him, startled. Sherlock continued sharply, "We know from Mycroft that Moran was almost certainly aiming at Sholto, not you."

John looked down. After a long moment he murmured, "I couldn't find my keys."

Before Sherlock could think of an answer to this Mrs. Hudson entered carrying a tray of tea things. Setting the tray down on the table next to Sherlock's chair, she poured two cups and added milk to both and sugar to one. Handing the latter cup to Sherlock, she brought the cup without sugar to John along with a prescription bottle of pills.

"Here, love," she said tenderly, handing him the cup. Numbly, he took it from her; she then opened the medicine bottle, shook out two pills, and handed him these also.

"Swallow these, dear. They'll help."

John blinked slowly at her. "Help?"

"Your shoulder, dear," she said gently.

John looked down at the pills cupped in his left palm. "Oh. Right." He popped them in his mouth, swallowed them dry, then chased them down with a sip of tea. He offered her a hollow smile that did not reach his eyes. "Ta, Mrs. Hudson."

Hovering over him for a moment, Mrs. Hudson hesitated. She leaned down and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "You're welcome, love." She straightened and glanced at Sherlock, but he refused to look at her, instead staring ahead with his fingers steepled before his face. She looked back at John, who was once again staring blankly ahead of him; he seemed to have forgotten she was there, and the presence of the teacup in his right hand. Nor did he appear to notice when Mrs. Hudson took it from him and set it before him on the coffee table.

"Well," Mrs. Hudson said finally. "I'll just…let you get your bearings." She lingered at the door to the sitting room, though, seemingly reluctant to leave them.

Suddenly she brightened a bit. "I'll make some soup and bring it up later."

Unperturbed by the lack of response from either of her tenants, she exited the flat and descended the stairs to her own, glad to have something to do.

Once Mrs. Hudson's footsteps had died away, silence overtook the flat – a silence that Sherlock was not wholly comfortable with. John, on the other hand, still sat staring into space, seemingly unaware of his surroundings. Sherlock suspected the doctor was lost in a sort of "John" version of a Mind Palace – out on patrol in Afghanistan with James Sholto, perhaps.

"So what was he like?" Sherlock asked abruptly. He said it rather more loudly than he intended, but it worked – John startled slightly, jolted out of his distant thoughts, and blinked at Sherlock in surprise and confusion.

"Your Major Sholto," Sherlock clarified. "What was he like?"

John frowned at him, clearly puzzled. "Why have you suddenly taken an interest in another human being?"

Sherlock was surprised by how much that question hurt, though John evidently had not intended to be hurtful – there was no bite in his tone at all; only faint curiosity. And it was a fair question – Sherlock usually wasn't curious about other people who had nothing to do with him or the Work. But in a way, Sholto had had something to do with Sherlock, because he was – had been – important to John.

Sherlock paused, thinking. He was no good at this – sentiment. Normally he never ran out of things to say – as John was fond of saying, Sherlock always had something to say, would outlive God trying to have the last word. But now his tongue was tied – in the land of friendship, Sherlock had always been a foreigner, and he had counted on John's fluency in the language to help him get by. John was Sherlock's interpreter; no one else had ever had the patience. (Then again, he had never clicked with anyone the way he had with John.) Nevertheless, it had always been John who had made up for the gaps in Sherlock's knowledge, who had supplied Sherlock's deficiencies, and who had gladly given freely while expecting nothing back.

Now, Sherlock realized, he needed to be the one to give for a change.

"He was important to you," he said finally, "and so I want to know about him."

It was so bloody difficult, and at first he thought he'd said the wrong thing – John stared at him, then his face twisted oddly and he blinked hard and looked away quickly. Sherlock felt uncertain (did I do it wrong?) but forced himself to stay quiet, to wait (two things that did not come naturally to him). John closed his eyes, inhaled deeply through his nose, then looked back at him. Sherlock saw that his expression was somehow softer, warmer, and he fought to hide his sense of relief, instead trying to appear receptive.

And perhaps it worked, for John, staring down at the tea before him, took a deep breath and began to speak.

He told Sherlock a tale of a fearsome, brooding soldier whom everyone respected whether they liked him or not – and many did not. A fierce warrior who often came off as the coldest son of a bitch imaginable, but who yet cared deeply for each of his men and considered it his sworn duty to do his best by them. A man who could cut a careless underling to ribbons verbally without ever uttering a derogatory insult, whose icy stare could turn one's knees to water. A brilliant strategist, utterly fearless and intensely loyal. A gruff, laconic man who could be painfully blunt, but who possessed also a dry humor John appreciated. A man who did not make friends easily, but once you earned his friendship (and you did have to earn it), he was on your side for life.

As Sherlock listened to John speak, his voice colored by admiration, sadness and affection by turns, he realized he was learning not only about James Sholto – he was learning about John, and about his own place in John's mind and heart.

Sherlock never interrupted and he asked no questions, but it was clear that he was listening intently. When John at last fell silent the detective sat quietly for a time.

"I…regret I was not here, when…" Sherlock's voice trailed off uncertainly.

John, who had been staring through the surface of the coffee table, glanced up at him. "Where were you today?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "I was…following up on a lead. For a different case."

John nodded. "It's…fine. Yeah."

A pregnant silence fell. John seemed to be struggling with himself. "Sherlock–" he began, and stopped.

Sherlock, who had been staring at his own hands again steepled before his face, looked over at him.

John waited until the detective met his eyes before he said it.

"Thanks for…being here, yeah?" He cleared his throat a bit awkwardly. "I'm…I'm really glad you're here." He flushed a bit and looked down again.

An odd, warm sensation filled Sherlock's chest – and kept filling it, and filling it, and filling it, until he thought he might burst if he didn't let it out. He wanted to tell John how glad he was that John had come back, how sorry he was that he hadn't trusted him, had lied to him and left him behind. He wanted to tell him how much it hurt him to know that John had been hurt, and that he would give worlds to change the past. He wanted to tell him how much it had scared him – the thought of a world without John in it – on the night of the mill, and that was why he had been shutting John out these past weeks. That he was frustrated because, even though he had been leaving John behind again to keep him safe, Moriarty had still managed to reach out from beyond the grave and brush John with death. He wanted to explain to John that he would gladly give his life for him, even as the doctor had once offered up his own for Sherlock's.

Sherlock wanted to say all these things, but he didn't know how. So he stood, reached for his violin, and let the music say it for him.

And John – that brilliant idiot, fluent in the language of friendship – understood.

By the time Sherlock emerged from the music, night had fallen. Unnoticed by either of her tenants, Mrs. Hudson had come in at some point, leaving a pot of soup on the stove and switching on the a light in the kitchen as well as the floor lamp in the sitting room. Sherlock glanced at the couch; John, weary with grief and the events of the day as well as drowsy from the muscle relaxants he had taken, had stretched out on his back and fallen asleep.

Mrs. Hudson would no doubt say they needed to eat, but Sherlock figured John could use the rest – the soup could be reheated later. Quietly setting the violin aside, he pulled the throw from the back of his chair and carefully laid it over John. He intended to retreat to the desk and go over the report on Moran that Mycroft had given him, but he lingered a moment, staring down at his friend.

The left side of John's face was turned towards the back of the couch, hiding the scar, and his right arm hung, palm up, off the edge of the couch, knuckles almost brushing the floor.

After a moment's hesitation, Sherlock reached down and took hold of John's wrist. He told himself he merely wanted to fold the doctor's arm over his stomach so he would be more comfortable – perhaps even check his pulse to ensure the medication wasn't affecting him adversely with all that had happened today.

He did not like to admit to himself that he simply felt the need for physical contact, and that the undemonstrative John's being unaware of it would make it easier.

As Sherlock moved the tip of his finger over the pulse point in John's wrist, he was surprised to feel something…odd. A raised ridge of skin? Hesitating in his action of folding John's arm over his chest, he instead carefully turned the other man's hand over and carefully pushed up the sleeve so he could look at the inside of John's forearm.

And froze in place upon seeing the thin, five-inch long scar extending down John's arm from his wrist.


It was late when Lestrade pulled up in front of 221. He emerged from the car balancing a small stack of files, a paper bag packed with three orders of pad Thai, and a six-pack of beer, and made his way up the steps. Just as he was freeing one arm to reach for the door handle, he noticed a handwritten note attached underneath the knocker:

221C

Sherlock's writing. Lestrade frowned slightly. He had expected to find his friends in 221b; evidently Sherlock meant to direct him to go downstairs instead. Shrugging slightly, he shouldered his way into the building and down the stairs to 221c. There was a light on behind the paned glass door. Lestrade knocked slightly as he entered.

"John? Sherlock?"

Sherlock was standing by the full-length window adjacent to the fireplace, looking out. He did not turn when Lestrade came in or give any sign that he heard him.

Annoyed, Lestrade carefully set the files, beer and bag of food onto the coffee table.

"Thanks for the help, Sherlock." He looked around. "Where's John?"

"Upstairs. Asleep on the couch." Sherlock's voice was curt.

Lestrade frowned. Something…something was off, but he didn't know what.

"Is he…well, how is he?"

"You tell me, inspector. You apparently know more about him than I do these days."

The bite in Sherlock's tone gave him a bit of a shock. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?" Lestrade retorted.

He was taken aback when Sherlock suddenly whirled round to face him, grey eyes hardened to ice.

"Were you aware that John attempted suicide while he was in prison?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade felt as though all the air had been sucked out of his chest.

"I…I…" he faltered.

"So you did know," Sherlock hissed. "And you didn't think it worthwhile to inform me?"

"Sherlock!" Greg protested. "Almost no one knows, not even Mrs. Hudson! John didn't want anyone to know…I don't think it's even in his official record–"

"It isn't," Sherlock bit out darkly. He turned to face the kitchen as though the sight of Lestrade was hateful to him.

"The only reason I know is because – wait, how do you know it's not in his official record?" Lestrade demanded suddenly, eyes narrowing. "Sherlock, for God's sake, please don't tell me you and that bloody brother of yours–"

"Unimportant, Lestrade. Tell me what happened."

"How the hell do you even know about this, anyway? If it's not in his official record and John didn't tell you himself – I'm assuming he didn't, anyway, since you're down here asking me about it–"

"He didn't," Sherlock interrupted. He turned to face Greg again. "I saw the scar on his right wrist…obviously self-inflicted, obviously over the radial artery while skirting the tendons and nerves – something John, as a surgeon, would know how to do – likely administered with a razor blade. Most efficient – I would expect nothing less of John." Sherlock's lip curled at that. "Considering he is still with us today I imagine that he must have been discovered fairly quickly–"

"He was," Lestrade cut in heavily. Feeling unutterably weary, he dropped down into John's chair, shoulders slumped. "There was a prison officer there who really liked and respected John. He'd been keeping an eye on him. Knew John wasn't doing well." Greg ran a hand over his face. "He found John after…well, after. Got him medical attention, then called me. We managed to keep it quiet, claim it was an accident…of course it was obvious it wasn't, but the authorities weren't about to contest it…John had been bringing too much unwanted attention to the system as it was; they weren't keen for more, and with all of us telling the same story–"

"When?" Sherlock demanded.

Lestrade sighed. "Nearly a year ago now. Last August."

Sherlock ground his teeth.

"Sherlock." Lestrade looked at him seriously. "Does John know you…deduced this?"

"No. He was asleep when I caught sight of the scar."

"Then for God's sake, don't let him know you know, yeah? He wouldn't take it well. When he's ready, he'll tell you."

"The idiot!" Sherlock suddenly shouted. "Why? Why would he do that?"

"Keep your bloody voice down!" Lestrade hissed. "I don't want Mrs. Hudson to hear–"

Sherlock wasn't listening. He agitatedly began pacing up and down the length of the tiny sitting room, barely avoiding John's chair and the coffee table with each pass.

"Sherlock."

"How could he just give up like that?" Sherlock ranted. "There's no logic in it! None! John should know better than anyone how quickly events can shift! What could possibly outweigh the benefit of him not being dead? Tell me that!"

"Stop right there." Lestrade lurched to his feet, suddenly furious. "Don't you dare judge John. Need I remind you that he wouldn't even have been in that situation if you and Mycroft hadn't gone all cloak-and-dagger on us and cut him out of the loop entirely? You utter arse, do you honestly not realize the effect your own so-called 'suicide' had on–"

Greg bit back the rest of the sentence at the sight of Sherlock's stricken face. Part of him wanted to tell this overgrown, idiot child exactly what his role had been in this whole bloody debacle. But he was not a cruel man, and he knew, anyway, that Sherlock's ravings were at least in part a parrying technique – an attempt to avoid facing his own culpability.

Jesus, what a mess.

Striving to rein in his temper, Lestrade consciously lowered his voice as he went on. "You have no idea what things were like here after you took a walk off Bart's and left us all, especially John, in a pile of shit. I know you had your own mess to deal with, Sherlock, but John's been through a hell of a lot of trauma, and it's no wonder he came to the end of his rope. "

At that, the fight seemed to go out of Sherlock and he stilled, shoulders sagging in defeat.

"But why?" he demanded, but there was a barely concealed, plaintive note in his voice this time that cooled Greg's anger at once. "Why did he choose to do it then? The worst was over…such an irrevocable action doesn't allow for any contingencies, or complexities, or…" he trailed off, uncertain. Then, looking at the floor, he added so quietly that Greg almost missed it, "…me."

Tiredly, Greg sat down again. "I don't completely understand it myself, except…I think things got too quiet for him." The detective inspector's mouth twisted ironically. "You of all people should understand that. And he didn't 'give up,' Sherlock…he lost hope. That's a different thing altogether."

Grey eyes narrowed at him as Sherlock snapped his head in his direction. He studied Greg inscrutably for a moment, then stepped over to the window again, looking out.

After awhile, Lestrade rose with a heavy sigh. "Look, Sherlock…don't bother John about it, all right? Not tonight, anyway. Let him sleep, and give yourself time to…well, to absorb this, I guess.

Sherlock did not respond. He stood stock still, staring through the sheer curtain covering the window.

Lestrade shrugged. "Right," he muttered. "Tell him I was here, yeah? And that I'll call him tomorrow."

And not knowing what else to do he left, though not without a sense of foreboding.


Lestrade's advice was probably best, no doubt, but Sherlock was far too upset and agitated to heed it. The more he thought about it, the more worked up he became – John Watson, the strongest and bravest man he knew, had attempted suicide. Had it not been for a more than usually vigilant prison officer, the doctor might have successfully deprived Sherlock Holmes of his only real friend.

The incident had occurred a month, maybe six weeks at most prior to Sherlock's return. He had almost come home to a place that would not be home because it did not have John Watson in it.

A stab of sick terror twisted his gut, but Sherlock pushed it down, and a moment later he was positively seething, ready to tear into John and rip him to shreds for almost doing such a thing to him, Lestrade's advice and the fact that the doctor was grieving be damned.

Sherlock slammed out of 221c and stormed up the stairs, drawing Mrs. Hudson out of 221a as he swept as he passed her door, startled by his loud entrance.

"Sherlock! What on earth–"

"Not now, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock snarled. He wanted to be yelling, throwing things even, and he was not going to let anyone stop him.

Bursting into 221b he was ready to begin cursing John out immediately, but paused, nonplussed, when he saw the sofa had been vacated, the throw tossed aside. Sweeping his eyes round the sitting room, he at once spied the object of his search standing at the desk, clothes slightly rumpled, hair disheveled.

Awakened by a nightmare, then, Sherlock started deducing automatically. Saw that I had stepped out, began casting about for something to divert his mind from the dream and the day's happenings, or perhaps went in deliberate search of information on Moran in a desire to help bring Sholto's murderer to justice. Went through the desk and found–

And then Sherlock's revving thoughts stalled as he realized just exactly what John had found, what he now held in his hands – a thick file, in Sherlock's possession courtesy of Mycroft, but not the one on Moran. No, what John was holding was his own prison file, which Sherlock had carelessly left out, unconcerned because John rarely visited the flat these days.

For a long moment, the two men stared at the file in John's hands. Then, as one, they raised their heads and their eyes met. Sherlock saw that John's were cold as ice. Still as a bomb poised to go off, he looked as livid as Sherlock had felt just seconds ago.

"You bloody nosey bastard," John ground out.


*Moran's full name is borrowed from George MacDonald Fraser's books, Flashman and the Tiger and Flash for Freedom!

†See article on Sebastian Moran at The Baker Street Wikia web site.

*†SNLR – "Service No Longer Required"

**Text paraphrased from Arthur Conan Doyle's short story, "A Scandal in Bohemia." In fact, I paraphrased a number of ACD's words from a number of his SH stories in this chapter.