Lestrade took their statements one at a time in the kitchen where there was a modicum of privacy. Sherlock told him everything for once, leaving nothing out. At the end of it, when Lestrade was writing down the last of what he had said, he was overcome with a strange urge to do something completely out of character. In that moment, he actually wanted to apologize for not having stepped in sooner, for having left Lestrade to deal with this serial killer until it ended the way it had. Because he could see in the way that Lestrade moved and spoke, the subtle tension that lingered, that the man was not as unaffected by Sophia's death as he would have liked to pretend.

"I guess that about does it," Lestrade said finally, flipping his little notebook shut. He rubbed at his temples with a weary hand, grimacing faintly. "I can't think of anything else, except to tell you that this will be last time we ever use you or John as bait in anything. Christ but my heart can't take it."

Sherlock's eyes flicked over him briefly. "You're not old," he said.

A small smile cracked Lestrade's exhausted face. "Thanks, I think, but I sure as hell feel like I am after watching that woman point a gun in your face. Took several years off of our life between Mycroft and me, as a matter of fact, so try not to do it again." He stood up. "He says he might have a case for you, but we're going to come back with it later if it turns out that he does."

Automatically, Sherlock opened his mouth to protest. He hadn't even heard what Mycroft's case was about. He hadn't even had the chance to turn it down! But Lestrade held a hand up to silence him before he could speak and said, "Look, I know what you're about to say because you and your brother are a lot more alike sometimes than you think. But I know it's the right decision to make. You're still in shock, Sherlock, and even if you weren't, neither you nor John is in any physical condition to go romping about the city. Regardless of whether or not you will ignore pain until your body gives out on you, John can't."

It was possibly the only thing that Lestrade could have said that would keep him from protesting, and they both knew it. Sherlock scowled. "Fine," he muttered after a lengthy pause.

"Good." Lestrade smiled again, this time with relief, and picked up his book. He tucked it into his pocket but otherwise didn't move, and there was a telling sharpness in the way he glanced at Sherlock. His eyes roamed over the younger man's body as though trying to make sure that a bullet hole wasn't going to magically appear.

"I am fine," Sherlock said, repeating the words he'd uttered not an hour earlier.

"He really is." John stepped into the kitchen carrying three empty mugs, and on his way by he swiped the two that were sitting on the table. He dumped them all into the sink and added, "No worse for the wear, either of us, and if you've got any cases that pop up in a day or two we'd love to take a look at them."

"Noted," Lestrade said with a nod. "Thanks John."

He walked out and John turned towards Sherlock, gracing him with an unexpected kiss that left Sherlock's heart fluttering. John's hands were cupped his face so tenderly that he felt fragile for quite possibly the first time in his life, and much to his surprise the feeling was not a detestable one. Rather, it was almost enjoyable. It never ceased to amaze him, how unbearably gentle that John could be. John was a set of contradictions wrapped up in a fluffy jumper, and it was no wonder that more than one criminal had been left reeling after under estimating him.

John chuckled softly. You're such a git sometimes, he remarked fondly. That was good of you, how you acted with Lestrade. He was really concerned about you.

I'm fine, Sherlock repeated, a little annoyed at being ignored.

If you want us to believe that, love, you'll need to stop insisting as much when you're ready to fall over from exhaustion and hunger. John was grinning, his blue eyes lit up with amusement. It made him look years younger, adding a boyish quality to his face that was extremely appealing. Sherlock leaned up and kissed him again rather than respond.

In spite of the approving sound that John made against his mouth, he pulled away. Your mum's waiting to say good-bye, he explained, pulling a regretful face.

And if they didn't go out, Sherlock knew, she would come looking, and the idea of being caught snogging with John was incredibly unappealing. He nodded and stood up, following John back into the other room. Mycroft was just helping Mummy to put her coat on. Their eyes met and a silent communication passed between the two of them. After a moment, Mycroft inclined his head slightly in understanding and picked up his umbrella. Mummy, if she'd noticed their exchange, ignored it in favor of pulling Sherlock into a careful embrace.

"I hate to go back so soon," she fretted. "But your aunt's asked me to help plan Matilda's party, and I said yes - I can stay if you'd like, I don't mind."

"That's not necessary, but thank you," John said gently before Sherlock could say anything. He knew that if Sherlock had to say "I'm fine" one more time they'd likely have a strop on their hands. "I'll take good care of him."

Mummy smiled. "Thank you, John," she said, moving to embrace him as well. John hid his surprise well as he returned the hug, and over Mummy's shoulder Sherlock gave him an unexpectedly shy smile. Mummy released him and moved to stand back next to Mycroft and Lestrade.

"Good-bye," Sherlock said, meeting her eyes significantly. She was smiling, which was a far cry from the last time she'd visited and she'd spent nearly the whole time trying to convince him that he could still find his soul mate if he was willing to look. She was far more at ease leaving him with John than she had been when he was alone. Even though he never would have admitted it, it was comforting to know that Mummy had given her approval of John. He relaxed into the warm grip of John's arm around his waist as the three of them left.

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