Sherlock paused at the landing, hand on the door knob. There were two sets of footprints leading to the flat. John's presence he had anticipated. Mary's was surprising. He quietly opened the door and moved inside. Their quiet voices travelled down the stairs, only pausing in conversation as he shut the door behind him.

His hand dragged besides him on the banister, fingertips sliding over the cool wood as he traveled up the steps to his flat. The small room was warmed by a large fire. Mary sat in his chair, shoes lying to one side, bare feet stretched towards orange glow as the wood spit and popped in delight. Her hands rubbed small circles over her swollen stomach and she didn't smile as she looked at him.

"Mary asked to come," John explained.

She gave a small shrug. Everything in her body language suggested she was indifferent. The ring on her finger and her choice of clothing said otherwise. The items she wore were designed to remind John of her impending motherhood. The blouse accentuated her belly and its low cut revealed her enlarged breasts. The black skirt was sensible, something she might wear to the park pushing a pram in front of her.

He didn't have anything to compete with the ties she held over John. If he revealed the questionable paternity of the child, Mary would most certainly deny it or John might decide to stay with her regardless. John had already forgiven their every transgression. So he would forgive John for making this choice - the logical choice, the right choice – just as Mary had already forgiven John for his infidelity.

"Right then. Sherlock I've explained things to Mary."

Your hands in my hair. Your lips on my throat. You didn't tell her that, John…

"I know you and John were very good friends before I came along. We'd like to keep it that way. John and I need this marriage to work. I think it's best if you two don't spend too much time alone together," Mary said. "Don't you agree?"

John looked stunned. Whatever he'd thought she was going to say it hadn't been that.

"His presence is required this evening," Sherlock replied.

It was preposterous. Sherlock wanted to spend every waking hour with John. He was the first thing Sherlock thought of on the rare mornings he woke up in his own bed. The simple smell of his tea steeping made him long for John besides him, sipping his own cup. He wanted his time to be filled with John and then it still wouldn't be enough.

"Is there anything else then?" Sherlock asked, looking only at John.

John shook his head and there it was again - the look that John and Mary gave one another. It meant they both knew something he didn't. Mary started to push herself up out of the chair and John quickly reached over to help. She darted a glance at Sherlock and her tongue licked against her lips. He was making Mary nervous. Why? He had no hold over John. Sherlock studied the couple with narrowed eyes. He hated not knowing.

John kissed her cheek as he walked with her to the door.

"We're going to end this, Mary," John said.

"It's for the best," Mary replied.

John cleared his throat.

"We're going to end this thing with Moriarty. We'll take care of it and then he won't be a threat to you or the baby," John clarified.

Mary looked stricken as he led her away, shooting one final glance at Sherlock from over her shoulder. Sherlock felt a fluttering in his chest as he waited for John to finish escorting his wife to the door. He turned to the fire and put his hands behind his back.

"I'm going to go change," John muttered from the doorway.

John disappeared into the bathroom and Sherlock picked up his violin, losing himself in the familiar rhythms of treasured pieces. He opened his eyes to find John leaning against one wall, watching him. He lowered his bow down to his side and his arm hung limp and useless under that soft stare.

"I've always loved hearing you play," John said. John had discarded his loose poor-fitting clothing for a pair of slim jeans and a blue button-up shirt. The shirt was an expensive cashmere-cotton blend, perfectly tailored to accentuate John's broad chest. Soft leather shoes added just the right amount of casual touch to the ensemble. His arms were crossed and those blue eyes were intent on him.

"Mycroft has excellent taste," Sherlock said.

"If that's your way of telling me I look good, then ta. Now go get your ass into your jeans. We're supposed to be there in thirty minutes."

Part of Sherlock wanted to flee to his room, closing the door behind and slumping against it until he slid slowly to the floor. Then why was he considering something else? Maybe it had been the panic in Mary's eyes or the way John dismissed her from the room. A message that had once been garbled by misunderstanding and regret was coming through more clearly. So he gently deposited his violin on the sofa and strode over to John. He looked down his nose towards the man he had befriended and the lover he'd come to know. If anyone knew what to say to John Watson in that moment it was Sherlock.

"Make me," he whispered and watched as John's eyes filled with blatant desire. He reached down to grab a fist full of hair, pulling John gently towards him.

"Christ Sherlock!"

There was a sharp intake of breath as he nibbled at John's ear lobe. His hands found John's back and he ran his fingers up and down the spine, finding the most sensitive spots, cataloguing John's reactions. His head moved down to nuzzle at his neck and John lifted his chin up to give him more room. Over and over again his mouth worshipped John's throat, his ears, his lips. The salty sweetness of John's skin under his tongue made the giving so rewarding.

"God Sherlock," John gasped. "My bedroom now!" John ordered.

Sherlock gave a low chuckle and John closed his eyes.

"This isn't the right time for…sentiment."

John didn't pull away or get that angry look in his eyes. Instead he shrugged with a small smile and left Sherlock to wander in a slight daze back into his bedroom to prepare to go out. He grabbed the first thing he could find, a dark washed pair of jeans. They fit less snuggly now than they had when he'd gone to see John for dinner. He'd lost 3 pounds since then. His purple shirt was freshly laundered and hanging on one bedpost. He left the top two buttons loose and took a quick look in his mirror. His hair had fallen loose during the day and it now lay in waves around his face. His fingers tousled and teased until the style looked more intentional.

John had already seen him in this outfit, leather jacket and all. Apparently it still made an impression. His former flatmate was averting his eyes and there was a spot of color on each cheek. John cleared his throat quietly

"So what's the plan?" John asked.

"We are to infiltrate the Factory nightclub in Soho. Our primary objective is to gather intelligence. The second is to find Moriarty."

"I'm sure Mycroft has a special unit for that. Us going in seems a bit like a suicide mission. I should know, I've volunteered for a few. And don't tell me there's less risk of collateral damage this way. The only reason you and Mycroft hatched up this plan was to draw Moriarty out. Sending in a unit might drive Moriarty further underground instead of flushing him out. And from what you've told me Moriarty is working for someone. He's your real target." John said.

John's easy assessment of the situation wouldn't be unusual for a military tactician or strategist. It was almost suspicious for an army doctor.

"Did I miss anything?" John asked.

Sherlock gave a noncommittal noise as he reassessed the man he'd befriended five years ago. That first night, the perfect shot through a window. It was a very good shot in fact, one that not every soldier could have made. What was the nature of John's injury?

"I had bad days," John said quietly.

Sherlock realized he'd been staring at John's injured shoulder and lowered his eyes. Outside was the sound of a car stopping. The engine remained idling and there was a knock downstairs.

"Showtime," John said. He grabbed Sherlock's wrist as he strode to the door

.
"In a hurry?" Sherlock asked. He meant it to be teasing, but it came out dark and suggestive. John didn't even pause as the clambered down the steps.

"I want this done so I can get back to my life. I'm sick of Moriarty's head games and the way he manipulates people. He's like an insane twisted version of you."

"He gets under your skin," Sherlock said.

"I don't like this, Sherlock," John replied.

"I told you that you wouldn't."