Life resumed at Baker Street. John sometimes came back from clinic and sometimes he didn't. He knew where John spent those nights away because where else would he go? He wondered if Mary lay alone in her bed the nights John wasn't there, thinking about him and Sherlock together, wondering what they were doing.

It turned out they weren't doing much of anything. None of the cases were above a 6 and Sherlock solved them anyway because that's what John wanted. There was dinner at Angelo's, redeemed only by John's presence. He really wasn't hungry – Mrs. Hudson had taken to leaving buttered toast with his tea and most of the time he ate it. Finally there was time together in front of the telly. Not nearly as interesting with John seated completely on the other side of the sofa.

It was early in the evening and John had returned to Baker Street, a small victory considering how angry he was that morning. Sherlock had forgotten to dispose of the rat eyes and they had been decomposing in the sink. John found them when he tried to do the dishes.

Now John was here, up in his old room, and Sherlock could hear him pleading gently, then demanding firmly, and finally hollering into his phone.

"I deserve to know," John said, storming back into the sitting room. He fell back into his chair, staring at his phone.

"About her time with Moriarty," Sherlock said.

His fingers were plucking aimlessly at the tight strings of his violin, feeling them vibrate across the instrument. He paused as John remained silent, his shoulders hunched over his phone.

"No not that," he replied. He rubbed his free hand through his hair.

Now it was Sherlock's turn to be quiet. If John knew the baby wasn't his then he would guess that Sherlock also knew. Another fight. Another week or maybe even two of quiet mornings and dull afternoons without John. Or this could be the thing that broke their friendship. How much deception would John tolerate from him?

"You know what, maybe I don't want to know," John said, studying his hands. Then he walked to the bathroom, closing the door quietly behind him. Somehow his calmness was more upsetting than his anger. When John came out again they didn't talk about it. John sat in his chair, reading the paper, and Sherlock pretended he was occupied on his computer.

The week dragged by without a whisper from Moriarty. John constantly fussed over Mrs. Hudson, telling her not to overdo it. Sherlock rolled his eyes. The woman wasn't made of glass. Her second day back she had dropped a tray of biscuits at the top of the stairs and the tea pot shattered loudly against the floor.

"I'm so sorry Sherlock. My hand slipped," she said with tears in her eyes.

"Nonsense. It's fair play considering you constantly are subjected to my mess," Sherlock reassured her as he bent down to help clean up the pieces.

She had hugged him there where they both knelt on the floor. For a moment he allowed himself to rest his head on her shoulder. She released her hold and he turned to see John looking down at them both. John's eyes were lit with a genuine smile. It warmed his entire face even though it was small and quiet. John's eyes were soft and open as they looked at him. John Watson had never looked at Mary like that. He had never looked at Sherlock like that either. Not until now. Sherlock smiled back carefully.

It was easy and comfortable to slip into their old roles as flatmates. Sherlock used the kitchen for experimentation and John complained about it as he put the groceries from Tesco into the fridge. John started each morning on his computer, typing with two fingers in a slow clack-clack that made Sherlock cringe.

"Shouldn't you give up writing that blog?" Sherlock asked.

"If you stop leaving comments I'll give up writing," John replied without looking up.

Lestrade had also returned to work and it wasn't long before Sherlock's phone blipped with an incoming text.

"An 8 John!" he shouted, spinning around in slow happy circles in some unorthodox waltz.

"Shouldn't we be waiting for Moriarty?" John asked.

"And miss this case? It's a 8! He'll text if he needs us."

'I really don't understand you genius types," John muttered.

"Yet here you are," Sherlock said.

"God help me."

In a mad dash about London they followed a suspect to an old dilapidated house that Sherlock recognized from his uni days. He didn't mention this to John as they crouched in the thin cover of the bushes. John had drawn his gun and was breathing heavily from their last sprint.

"What's he doing in there?" John whispered.

"Procuring drugs," Sherlock answered.

"How do you… nevermind. I don't want to know."

The minutes passed and Sherlock nudged John again as his eyes started to droop. The clouds swallowed the moon and left them drifting in the darkness. Time seemed to stand still, the waiting drawn out by the lateness of the hour and the stillness of the night. It was without a breeze, stagnant and quiet. John had slumped against the wall and from his breathing he seemed fast asleep. A door opened with a soft creek above them and John shot up like he'd heard gunfire (soldier's instinct). John couldn't see him so Sherlock leaned close, his lips finding John's ear, John's hair tickling his nose.

"Wait until he reaches the street."

A light came on from inside the house, bathing the sidewalk outside with sudden light and making his eyes water. Their suspect came out, tripping down the stairs and looking around with dazed empty eyes. Behind him followed three lean men clearly of Southeast Asian descent (small stature, distinct facial features, darker skin coloring). Their eyes scanned the space around them in a way that suggested martial arts training, most likely Muay Thai given their heritage and the fact that they were carrying both guns and knives.

Sherlock held up his arm to block John and shook his head. The odds were not in their favor. Without hesitation John ducked under his arm and stepped around the corner of the house, gun in his hands. The still night was spoiled by two loud cracks, one after the other. John had fired two shots into the sky. The men ducked down, holding their heads in their hands. John had expected the reaction, one he'd seen hundreds of times in Afghanistan. It was an instinct that came from self-preservation. John reached the closest one and held the Browning firmly to his head.

"I hadn't planned on killing anyone today," he said calmly and without remorse. It was John's easy self-confidence that kept the man at his feet from attempting to disarm him. The way John held himself without fear made the man uncertain. Sherlock stared at the once soldier, now blogger and felt a shiver run up his spine. He licked his lips, holding his gaze to John when his attention should have been on the suspect and his companions.

Sherlock had kissed that mouth and he wanted to do it again, right here in front of the house he used to love and hate, as if their sweet ceremony could undo the dark mistakes of his past. More than that he wanted their bodies pressed together without past regrets between the slide of their skin. He could picture John naked if he wanted. He had enough data from morning showers, slipped towels, and the occasional nude dart from the bathroom to the linen closet for a clean flannel. That skin used to be golden under the Afghan sun. The tan had faded. The white, pink, and red scars remained. His mouth wanted to lick every one so his tongue could feel how each was different.

"You don't want any trouble. Leave the boy with us," John suggested.

The men fled together back into the house and their suspect lowered his hands from his ears and gazed upwards in confusion. John looked pointedly at Sherlock until he hurried over.

"I suggest we eliminate any temptation our presence may have," Sherlock said.

"What's your name?" John asked, holstering the gun into his pants.

"Ryan."

"Let's get you somewhere safe, Ryan," John said.

They each wrapped an arm around their necks and Ryan moved forward with a slow gait. When they reached the main street and Sherlock trusted they hadn't been followed, he allowed John to pull out a small torch and examine Ryan's eyes and mouth, then the needle tracks running up his arm.

Sherlock reached down into Ryan's coat pocket and came away with a small black bag. He dumped the gemstones into his hand. The largest was a flawless nugget and blue-green in color. Sherlock held it into the beam of the torch, turned his head just a fraction, and the color shifted to purple.

John plucked one from his palm and held it up to the dim streetlights.

"I've never seen this kind of gem before. It changed color!"

"Alexandrite, a variety of chrysoberyl. These particular stones are of the finest quality, indicated by their brilliant color. Its rarity makes it more valuable than diamonds."

"That is amazing. How did you know he would have it?"

"He didn't even know he had it. That's the beauty of it! The clue was in the coat. Our thief was assaulting only male drug addicts. What could an assailant possibly want from a youth with little money or valuables? Something he didn't know he had. And the one thing the victims all had in common was the black coats they wore, particularly the brand and style."

In the cab on the ride back they were both quiet. Sherlock looked out the window and watched the lights of the city as they came then retreated. Faces moved past in a blur too quick to be analyzed. They were ordinary unimportant people, unreachable to his ever searching mind. He found their non-presence soothing.

John's hand crept over the seat and found Sherlock's leg. Sherlock whipped his head around in surprise. John was smiling softly at him. He reached one arm over to pull Sherlock closer. The hand moved up to his head, into his curls, almost like a massage. Then it stroked in small circles over his jaw and down his neck. Sherlock bit his lip hard and tried not to make a sound. John's face was so close to his, their noses were touching then rubbing together gently.

"John," Sherlock whispered.

"Hmm?"

"Kiss me," Sherlock said. John's lips found Sherlock's so quickly their teeth banged together. It was a hard kiss and sloppy but there was no doubt who was in control. Sherlock let his body relax, submitting to the wet hungry mouth above his.

Sherlock moved his hands over John's jacket then under his shirt. The feel of John's skin under his fingertips was incredible. He felt (but couldn't see) scars from shrapnel. There, a slightly raised welt indicating a surgical procedure. Every inch of John's skin was a distraction.

"I said we're here," the driver called from the front, looking pointedly ahead.

"Right, sorry mate," John replied, pulling away. He gave Sherlock a soft laugh. Sherlock wondered if he looked as flushed and happy as John. He drew himself up, trying to catch a glimpse of himself in the driver's mirror.

"Come on already Sherlock," John said.

They tumbled through the door together, kissing and laughing while they tried to remove coats and scarves and shoes. John leaned over to help pull Sherlock's arm through his coat and then he stopped, grinning wickedly. He held Sherlock's arm in place and backed him into the wall. Then he grabbed Sherlock's free arm and held it over his head, pinning him in place.

Sherlock breathed softly out and his whole body gave a shudder. The wall was solid and real behind his back but everything else was spinning. The floor barely held up his legs and the room danced in vivid colors in front of his face. At the center of it all was John. John's lips touching him, John's tongue coaxing his mouth open, John's hands holding his in place. The kisses were long and deliberate and Sherlock returned them as best he could.

"Okay there?" John asked softly.

Sherlock managed a slight nod.

"Let's go upstairs. Mrs. Hudson is still recovering. Don't want to send her back to the hospital," John said.

John pulled Sherlock up behind him, no hesitancy in his steps. He was so confident, so commanding, so everything that Sherlock wanted. Any minute he would wake up in his own bed, alone in 221b.

"Don't leave me John," Sherlock whispered.

John's fingers tightened on his hand. His mouth turned down and he looked away.

"Let's just… take it as it goes for now."

He quivered all over and John pulled away and they froze a minute. Sherlock felt control slowly slipping back in place.

"Tell me what you want, Sherlock," John said.

"I want you John," he whispered with his eyes closed.

"Only me," John growled and it wasn't a question.

*********

He wasn't quite asleep when he heard the sound he'd been waiting for. From the pocket of his dressing gown a phone was ringing.

"Hope I didn't wake you," came Moriarty's voice.

"I wasn't sleeping," Sherlock replied, carefully shutting John's door behind him.

"You've got your playmate back."

Sherlock paused in the sitting room. He stared into the mirror above the fireplace, consciously smoothing out the lines of worry he saw on his face. He whirled around, phone pressed to his ear. He knew exactly what he needed to say. It was just painful to say it.

"John is my bishop, a piece to be wielded with precision. He's also completely in my control. Anything he feels for me I use to direct his actions. You think I care for him? I let him think I was dead for two years. He's my protection. I'm not his."

"Prove it," Moriarty growled.

Sherlock paced the floor. If Moriarty was a puppet as he and Mycroft suspected, then that left someone bigger, someone who had been playing with them since the beginning. Sherlock knew who Mycroft suspected but there was only one way to find out.

"All those wheels and gears in your head, clogging with feelings. I thought you were above that," Moriarty said in a bored voice, as if the entire conversation were beneath him. Sherlock could picture Moriarty looking down at his neatly manicured nails, lips drawn back in disgust.

"You're mistaken," Sherlock said as casually as he could.

"Oh I don't think so Sherlock. Love is slowing you down."

"I am not in love with John Watson!" Sherlock snapped, angry at himself for losing control of the conversation.

"Prove it," Moriarty repeated. "I know what you want. Don't play dumb with me."

"The king," Sherlock whispered.

"Bingo! Good luck keeping your bishop until you find him."

Sherlock stared at the silent phone before he threw it against the wall in sudden frustration. He hadn't felt this uncertain since the fall from Bart's. There were too many variables and he needed new information, not the same dribble.

From the corner of his eye he caught a movement on the stairs. John was leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. His face was thunderous.

"John I-"

"It's all fine Sherlock," John said, even though every line of his body indicated otherwise. "It's all been a guise to draw out Moriarty. I understand."

Sherlock felt his attempt at an explanation fall away from his lips. This was better than anything he could have planned. John would go back to Mary and their lives could move forward. The ache deep in his chest would subside with time. He was sure.

"You've done nothing but lie and manipulate me. Mary was right about you."

John was already back up the stairs. Sherlock let him go. He had no choice. He had made a vow. The next morning John left for work almost immediately on waking. There was no affection or words of affirmation, only a cold distance like a wall between them. John did not return home that evening or the next day.