Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A. N. Happy birthday, heart sister, notjustmom! And a little bit of happy birthday to me, too. Hope we can share a hundred of these days, and that we'll have fun each time! Sorry for this piece's themes, but I am an angst queen... TW:Suicide, suicidal thoughts, grief. But I promise, happy end! Reviews are the best gift, by the way. ;D

What you wish for

Sherlock isn't even sure why he brought it home. Sure, it was on the crime scene, but it's highly improbable it had anything to do with the actual murder. An old, beaten, probably fake-Oriental lamp was clearly not the crime weapon. Not in such an outré murder. But it still attracted him, in a way. Perhaps because it felt out of place. While his own decorating style can be termed eclectic at best, the victim's house was, mostly, boring. Disgustingly rich, but not in a literal sultan style.

Obviously it could be a souvenir of an old trip or something equally as inane. But Sherlock couldn't help himself. He nicked it.

And for a little while, in a corner, forgotten, the lamp stays. Perhaps because that case, while he solves it (of course he does) scratches at his brain with a feeling of wrong. Of...imbalance. As dull as the rest of the victim's life, in the end - a nephew trying to speed up his inheritance, of all things. Motive for murder? Why not, it's as good as any other. Sherlock believes you can always find a motive to kill someone if you really want to. Motive for so much violence? He can't quite pinpoint how things tipped from 'yeah, sure, I'll murder him' to 'Might as well go medieval on his arse'. The killer himself sounds confused on the matter, which doesn't help. He doesn't need a visual reminder of confusion - it's going to mess up his mind palace.

Then he's moving into Mrs. Hudson's, and it doesn't take much to figure out that, despite her protests about not being anyone's housekeeper, she can and will clean up if things aren't to her standards. Yes, he could start with the kitchen table, or vacuuming, or anything else. But the little lamp is in the way, and - baby steps, right? He noncommittally dusts her, with a sleeve, actually, and then. Well, then.

He must have fallen asleep. There's no other explanation. In other days, he would have chalked it up to a bad trip, but he's not used in weeks. Lestrade is annoyingly stern like that, and has already proved he will take Sherlock off cases if he can't trust his sobriety. Mrs. Hudson hasn't even brought up any treats today, so it's not like she could have slipped him something by accident (Sherlock knows exactly what her soothers are, and she's not above mixing some into her biscuits). An enemy? The move is so recent, the only one that could have tracked him down is also the only enemy Sherlock has or will have that would rather die than dose him. He's too afraid of upsetting Mummy. So, no drugs. But also, this is patently not real.

This universe is vast, and full of mysteries. But there's simply no way it also includes hazy figures popping out of old lamps. Especially not hazy figures who ask "So, what's your wish?" with all the deference of a fast food employee during the last ten minutes of their last shift - and the accompanying annoyed glare, because what could anyone do? Fire them?

That line of thought actually makes Sherlock peckish, so he says "What about some fish and chips?"

"Seriously?" the...thing huffs, sounding offended. A sigh, a snap of his fingers, and there's a huge plate in front of Sherlock. Kinda boring as a dream, but hey. Probably he just needs to wake up and head to Speedy's. Have some real food. Even if this one, mmmh, ok, he's not complaining. He's so, so, not complaining. He's certainly had much worse nightmares.

It's only hours later - actually, in the middle of the night - that he's forced to confront the insane, miserable reality. Because he's throwing up, and you can't throw up what you've only eaten in a dream. He's tempted to wipe the lamp again and lodge a complaint, but with that...whatever? It's not that Sherlock is afraid of it, not at all. Just that he needs more info before he hurts himself worse. Besides, he has a feeling that the (he can't call it a genie, he refuses to) would sneer something along the lines of "You liked it. How am I supposed to know what's toxic to humans? Do I look like a fucking doctor to you?"

Sherlock wouldn't be able, in good conscience, to reply in the affirmative.

Sherlock carefully doesn't touch the thing while researching it. Origin, composition (as much as it can be ascertained without taking a sample, which he's not risking), quantum something that might actually offer a minimum of sense. No matter how long he investigates, though, no reasonable picture seems to ever form. All he's left with, in the end, is some sources from myth. What's next, then? Unicorns?

Maybe he just needs more data on the process itself. The lamp, as it is, doesn't really seem to have specific property. Maybe, if he can record it while it happens... But what to ask for?

Most sources agree that the wishes are not unlimited, so he might as well not waste one on something stupid again just for the sake of the experiment. He hopes things will work out, but if they don't, at least he'll be left with something good. But he doesn't care much for what most people would want. Money? Who needs it when they have a Mycroft? Sex? He doesn't need magic to get it, if he wanted to bother. Fame? The last thing he needs is idiots trailing after him. He will ask...As soon as he comes up with the right demand.

For the moment, the lamp - and its dweller - are locked up in a drawer, both of his room and of his mind palace.

His brain will keep working on it, in the background, and when something new sparks a solution, he'll handle this. In the meantime, there are so many other things vying for his attention. If he doesn't help, Lestrade - and London's citizens - will be at the mercy of any criminal with a minimum of brain.

Really, it should have come to mind immediately. But he had been so focused, and then there were a few interesting cases, backlog accumulated while he was too busy examining the prospect of the supernatural, so he was happily busy. But then the void swallows him (not literally, of course). The lack of stimulation unbearable like a physical ache. He sets up the camera, and then summons the creature.

"What's your wish?" The thing sounds as overwhelmed by tedium as he is.

"I wish to never be intolerably bored anymore."

The grin he receives is almost unsettling. "Done," it promises.

But nothing happens, which is more than a bit frustrating. "Well?" he almost growls, when it starts to enter the lamp again.

"You didn't expect me to drop a dead body on the sitting room floor, did you? Things are in motion. Don't worry, you'll see the effects long before your ennui becomes too much."

"It is now!" he whines.

"You should try my life for a week. Then you'd understand ennui."

Sherlock instinctively takes a step back.

"Don't worry, I'm not allowed. Anyway, if you insist, I guess I could entertain you a bit before things come to light."
The sleuth grinned. "If you don't mind... I have a few questions. Or, well, at least one. Tell me when I push too far."

It nodded and shrugged.

"Is there a limit to wishes?"

"Not technically." Its eyes flickered with a predator's shadow.

"That's begging a but right there."

"I'm not going to be your counselor, unless you specifically ask me to. And I'm not going to be responsible for the consequences of it. Usually it doesn't take long before I find myself switching owners again." The creature smiled.

"What are you not allowed -or unable - to do?"

"I'm not allowed to disobey my, well, human of the moment. " The creature sneered. "Or directly harm humans myself. So, I guess, if you were feeling suicidal and thought to ask, I couldn't just snap my fingers. But I have total control of inanimate matter. I could, say, provide you with cyanide and leave you to it. Also, I don't control people, but I can nudge them. Gently. Usually we can find a work around for any wish centred about other people. After all, they have things they want, too."

Sherlock joined his hands. "Why did you mention suicide rather than homicide?"

"I've seen a lot of people."
Of course, that's when Sherlock forgets all about getting data for his research and instinctively asks, "Wanna play deductions?"

"It doesn't matter what I want," it grumbles. "But...this is new." For a moment, it stops being a mysterious being, in and out of the uncanny valley, and looks almost like a thrilled child on Christmas morning.

Rules are quickly explained, and then it (Sherlock should really ask its name, sooner rather than later) proceeds to beat him soundly. Three out of three. That's when the detective dismisses it, of course, with an annoyed wave. It's unfair, really. It obviously had much longer to accumulate knowledge than he did. No, he's not sulking. He doesn't sulk.
Sherlock summons him another couple of times. Just growling about how painfully bored he is seems to do the trick. Next time, he asks for the creature's name, but it dodges the question.

"Nothing you could pronounce anyway. If you really need a name, you can pick one."

Next time it's summoned, Sherlock announces he's going to call it Billy, "unless you object."

It shrugs, again. Sherlock was tempted to go with Will, since it's a wish-fulfilling ...something, but he has a feeling it'll present a bill one of these days.

For a while, the consulting detective is perfectly content with things as they are. In fact, he can't imagine anything he might wish for. But then other humans start being annoying, as is their wont. Mummy, Mycroft, Lestrade, even Mrs. Hudson. Everyone agrees that Sherlock needs a flatmate. A minder, they don't say, but it's obvious. Ok, yes, he might use. Occasionally. But he's an adult, functional (bar the odd hour or two) and should be allowed to make his mistakes in peace, shouldn't he?

"I wish everyone would just stop the flatmate spiel, Billy," he huffs.

This time Billy is quiet for five seconds or so, but then promises, "Consider it done."

Later that day, he meets John Watson.

Back home, he growls at the creature. "That's not what I meant and you know it,"

Billy smiles at him, unsettling just like the first time he did, and conversationally says, "Well, I considered organizing accidents for everyone who annoyed you, but frankly, that one lost veteran was easier to nudge."

"I thought you couldn't harm people."

"Not snap them out of existence. But, say, ruin a single step so they'll fall down the stairs, or something like that... is that what you wanted?"

"It's fine, it's fine." More than fine, hopefully, soon. He might not have discussed with Billy his military kink (nothing the creature needs to know) but it doesn't mean that he's not delighted.

After that, Sherlock has learned not to complain. In fact, it seems as if they're suddenly ignoring each other. Billy has decided that he won't entertain him anymore now that there's a flatmate to take into account, no matter how much Sherlock grumbles, shouts or tries to startle him. Then again, he suspects that the Moriarty mystery is his own wish in action. Maybe after he's solved that (an enigma producing more puzzles, and isn't that the best kind) Billy will be back. Or perhaps he'll have to expend a new one for more entertainment.

In the meantime, Sherlock's focus is divided. It's the only reason it's taking him this long to solve Moriarty, whatever it might be. Or at least that's what he tells himself (and wouldn't admit to anyone else, not even Mycroft.)

John is...well, Sherlock is starting to think he's (besides the fulfilment of his own wish) a sophisticated instrument of torture. Oh, he's fond of his flatmate. Achingly fond, in fact, and after all, he has his reasons. Which he could list, but the resulting essay would be way longer than his ash analysis one, and too embarrassing for anyone else to read anyway. It's kind of hard not to fall for someone who saves your life almost on first meeting, for one. But John is not interested. If Sherlock could believe that, he'd appreciate their friendship and move on. He does know how that works - despite popular ideas about him. But John keeps sending mixed signals (nobody needs that much lip-licking, just to quote one at random), which keep giving him hope. And hope... well, the Greeks had a point, putting it in Pandora's box with all the other evils. The sleuth knows firsthand how painful it can make one's life, when it's continuously dashed and rekindled.

In the end, it doesn't matter. Sherlock finds the solution too late, and - for the first and last time in his life - he doesn't care about it. It's not about outsmarting anyone, not Moriarty, and not Billy. He half wishes he could tell the creature, but while running from arrest, a detour to get a magic lamp wasn't exactly feasible. If Moriarty cared about it, Sherlock could tell him how he's been manipulated - how they've all been - so that Sherlock would relinquish his control on the praeternatural being, and give it a chance for a new companion. The consulting criminal wouldn't believe him anyway - Sherlock wonders fleetingly if Jim was always crazy or if 'a little push' was all he needed to fall into this self-destroying obsession.
Not that he has any right to talk about it, given that he's right on the brink of killing himself. He'd have done it either way, probably. An overdose, someday. Recklessness on any of so many cases, without John there to save him. Some other way he has no time to imagine. So, really, it's all been extra time. Extra John time, and for all the hurt that's caused, there was so much joy that Sherlock wouldn't give back, if offered the option to rush back in time. Yes, it wasn't what he'd expected. But it was sweet, and loving (in a way) and worth giving his life for. More so than all the things he'd have thrown it away over in the past.

He doesn't have the lamp to save himself. But he also regrets that he's never thanked Billy for what it's done. He should have. And he's too clogged with emotions - so many of them - to thank John, too. Too busy swallowing words - dangerous words - that would do nothing but hurt him. It's okay. He's got more than he wished for. Better, too. And now it ends.

John wishes he could avoid this. In fact, he has for way too long, on increasingly flimsy excuses. But Mrs. Hudson deserves better from him. She might have insisted all the time that she was just a landlady, but she'd lied. She knew, John knew, and he suspects that if you asked Greg, he'd know, too. Not a housekeeper though, no. Closer to an indulgent mum. John's own is gone - while he was deployed, actually - and so he feels double the heap of guilt from neglecting her.

He hasn't been able to visit since he moved out. Which he had to do because he couldn't breathe in the flat without Sherlock. You'd think that the certainty of no more cigarette smoke and disgusting smells (and worse) because of experiments would have helped that, if anything. John isn't sure if it was just panic attacks or if an actual scientific study would have classified Sherlock as addictive (and wouldn't that be ironic). But he hates, hates, hates down to his bones that he's been forced to go cold turkey.

He ran like a coward (he's a coward, now), but - tea. Mrs. Hudson's baking. He can - has to - give her an hour of his time and whatever comfort she might need, even if he has none for himself. He owes her.

She opens up as soon as he knocks, and hugs him tight. For a while, they talk about everything and anything except the only thing on John's mind (and hers, he assumes). What he's been up to (not much), her health, the next pick for Doctor Who, even the bloody weather. As if they're strangers. Then, her voice breaks. "I couldn't let it again."

They share a knowing look. "Are you -"

Before he can ask if she's had financial troubles - flat C is always a nightmare to find someone for, though possibly without a madman on their head, the mould will be more easily overlooked (it's central London, after all) she snaps.

"Drug cartel, John. That's never been a problem."

"Ok, good, that's good. " He nods. And then, surprising even himself, "Could I see it again?" He didn't mean to ask. Maybe it's a masochistic streak. Maybe it's a slim hope that all the work he's been doing with his therapist might actually have borne fruit.

"Of course." She hands him the keys, once again, "Go right along, dear. Mind you, it's probably terribly dusty in there, but..."

"You're not a housekeeper," he says, and that gets a smile from her. He knows the truth is that she couldn't make herself go up there, now that there's no one to do these chores, for reasons that have nothing to do with her damaged hip.
He's slow up the stairs - cowardice rushing back in - but now that he's asked her, he can't exactly turn tail, can he? The room is unlike he's ever seen it, and the sudden stab of agony proves he still has a long way to go to call himself over his grief. It's been years. He should be better. But the room is down to desolately bare furniture, with both his and Sherlock's things gone. It's such a far cry from the lively chaos of that first time that the emptiness seems to echo with accusations. You should have been there. You should have done something. You should...

Suddenly, he can't stand. But he can't bear the idea of sitting on his own chair, Sherlock's forever vacant one in front of him. He stumbles to the sofa and drops on it, face buried in cushions that are, indeed, dusty enough to maybe inspire an experiment of their own. The coughs that wrack him don't even start to distract him from the other pain.

Still, he rolls over, and one arm ends up hanging off the sofa. His fingers touch something and curiosity and wariness spark. What have the people emptying this place missed? And how toxic is it?

It's a lamp. A fucking imitation of an ancient Oriental oil lamp. He's never seen it before, but it's so like Sherlock, in a way. Weird, mismatched, random and interesting – that was the style of the flat...and of the man. John thought he'd managed to fit himself right in, to complement it so Sherlock didn't feel quite as isolated. But clearly, he'd been wrong. A sudden bout of nausea catches him, but he manages to ride it out. Good news: he doubts that it just infected him with some rare bacterium. His own feelings are perfectly capable of wreaking havoc on him. Bad news: he's not entirely concerned in case he should be wrong.
He pockets the thing without thinking. Then comes the guilt. He should give it to Mycroft, really. Or maybe even to Mrs. Hudson, if he doesn't feel like seeing the elder (now, only) Holmes. And frankly, he doubts he ever will feel up to meeting Mycroft again. He doesn't need anyone's accusations but his own. Besides, soldier. The best defense is to attack. And for all the jokes about being all-powerful... John failed Sherlock in the worst possible way, sure. But Mycroft wasn't far behind.

He escapes that train of thought and the flat. If only he could actually run away from his thoughts, he'd already be somewhere in New Zealand. Mrs. Hudson is in the hall, downstairs, and that'd be his chance to do what he should. But he can't bring himself to. Her understanding eyes and gentle demands that he not be a stranger do not help. He nods mechanically and keeps walking.
For a while, he doesn't know where he's going. But then – well, it's obvious. He gets a cab and asks for the cemetery. Actually, that's what he says at first - "the" cemetery, until an annoyed huff brings him to reality enough to specify.

He's lucky that the cemetery is basically empty at the moment, because the last thing he wants is for anyone to see him. John staggers to the black stone, and finally sits down, back against it, knees up, curled up against his own misery. "So, I've been round," he says, softly. "She misses you, you know." Of course he'd know. Sherlock knew everything. Dying won't have changed that.

He takes the lamp out of his pocket. "By the way, what is this?" He stares at it; swallows hard. "If you wanted a wish fulfilled... You could have asked." He sneezes, hard. Damned dust. One of his sleeves goes to clean it up. And then... Well, not what he expected. He thought when (if, if) he'd go mad, he'd have hallucinated Sherlock. Not a genie. Still, he doesn't care. If he's destined for a padded room, why not indulge it?

"What's your wish?" the hazy creature asks. He sounds bored. It's not possible to die and turn into a genie, is it?

"Sherlock Holmes, alive."

The genie tilts his head, and then says, "Done."

But he's not - the stone is still cold behind him, and there's no tall, mad consulting detective inviting him to come along.

The genie glares at him. "I'm not sure how long it's going to last, though."

"What?" John didn't mean to scream, But.

"Where is Sherlock Holmes?" The genie asks, with the tone of a teacher talking to an especially slow pupil.

If the meaning hadn't dawned on John with the immediacy of sheer horror, a dulled thud echoing would have enlightened him. On second thought, it was stupid not to just wish Sherlock out of his coffin then and there. Then again, the creature had a weird tendency to be literal in the worst ways, so maybe it was luckier that he didn't even consider that option, instead frantically looking around.

There had to have been a funeral earlier, because some tools were still around. John would never in his life be happier about people's laziness. He started digging frenetically, adrenaline driving him more than ever before. Finally, the coffin was in sight - and, thank God above, the noise hadn't stopped yet.

In one hit, the coffin opens. There he is, Sherlock, wild eyes, bloody fingers, half up out of it in a second, breathing hard. If John's hallucination is just going further and further, he doesn't care. A hand goes to his friend's back, another closes around a wrist. "It's okay, it's okay, it's okay," John keeps mumbling, helping him out and back on land.

"What?" Sherlock rasps, once he's got his breath - and feet - under control.

"I'll explain later. I promise. Just - let's go home."

Maybe it's a bad idea. If he's out of it, the last thing Mrs. Hudson needs is another visit from him. But if he's not... (could it be real?)

Sherlock nods, which is weird in itself. But one thing at a time.

The detective takes the lead, and John doesn't blame him for wanting outside as soon as possible. He quickly pockets the lamp and follows, giddy enough not to care whatever happens next, even if it's getting carted to the nearest asylum. Sherlock throws him an odd look when he makes to hail a cab too, but chiding him for wasted effort, when the sleuth is doing the same, is apparently more than he'll bother with.

Soon, they're back at 221B. By their landlady's scream, she sees him too. Oh thank you thank you thank you! "I'll explain later," he mumbles again, to her this time, rushing after his flatmate.

"What?" Sherlock is already inside. and very much not pleased.

John's heart breaks a little at the idea of Mrs. Hudson making sure he'd be buried with a copy of the flat's keys. But, hey, Sherlock's not mute. He'd worried.

In fact, Sherlock - after a quick check of his own pockets - growls "Phone," and John gives him his own. Of course he does. No matter how tempted he is, he doesn't stay to - to just soak Sherlock in. There's one important thing. He slips into the kitchen (is there even any leftover tea in there?) and quickly rubs the lamp. "What do you wish for?" the genie asks. His tone says "Already?" even if his words don't.

"That nobody else will suspect anything supernatural to be involved in Sherlock's return," he whispers. It had been bad enough when Moriarty took a shine to his flatmate for... no goddamn sensible reason. (Or, in a way, perhaps John's same reasons.) If the world suspected that they had a miracle-working thingamajig? There would be no way to keep themselves safe from everyone and their mum. John can't fend off Mycroft, the CIA, the Russians, the Mafia, and God only knows how many else, all at the same time.

The creature sighs deeply, but then announces, "Done," and disappears. John mechanically checks the cabinets (empty, obviously; what else did he expect?) and goes back just in time to hear Sherlock argue with his brother about this prank going way too far. Emptying Sherlock's flat of all his things? Really?

The sleuth marches on to the balcony - no doubt to prove to his brother that yes, it's actually him - and John would pity Mycroft for the shock he's in, if he didn't still resent him a bit.

Ten minutes later Mycroft's at the flat, with way too many minions bringing back Sherlock's things. As every bit of the broken puzzle of their lives goes back to its rightful place, John feels ever better. Mrs. Hudson, bless her, brought tea and biscuits up, and John dreads the moment he'll have to go fetch his things (and shopping) because what if he comes back to find it was all a dream?

In all honesty, he doesn't know what he's saying. He knows he's rambling, and then Sherlock takes over, even if what he actually does is that speaking in random sentences that make no sense to anyone else. Well, they might to his brother. Or at least he's pretending they do, because Mycroft would never admit that he's outwitted.

When they're finally alone, words press against his tongue. Words he meant to say and didn't get to. He can now...and once again, he's too nervous to. He makes a pact with himself. Tomorrow. If tomorrow he doesn't wake in Bedlam, he's going to tell him. He actually wakes way before dawn, to screams that get him out of bed and at Sherlock's side in less than 10 seconds.

...Nightmares. It's just nightmares. John used to be the one waking up in a sweat, panic receding only when he realized where he was. Sherlock - pretending not to mean to - was there for him, nine out of ten times. It's only right for John to reciprocate, right?

Soft spoken words and gentle touch manage to ground Sherlock back. in reality.

"Want to tell me?" He asks, but receives only a shake of the head. Fair. Let's see what nonsense 3 am telly offers. They end up cuddling on the couch, and the sun rises on him petting a newly asleep consulting detective's curls.

They wake up to a grinning Mrs. Hudson, with tea and ginger thins. If she feels like spoiling them a bit, or just coming up five times a day to check that it's not one too many soother's cumulative effect (which shouldn't be possible, but John gets her), he's going to say nothing more than thanks.

Sherlock stretches, doesn't even pretend there might be anything to explain in the situation, and mentions that they'll probably have more visits soon. After all, he's back. He needs to reconnect.

"Of course, dear," she agrees.

"If you just - happened to bake something, I'm sure it wouldn't go to waste." The detective grins at her.

"Don't push it, dear," she says, but John knows she'll indulge him. He was hard enough to say no to before he was an actually walking miracle. Their landlady hovers for a moment more, then leaves with a fond smile.

For all his plans, John had expected that he'd speak up at some point in the day...when the conditions were just perfect. But suddenly, it seems urgent to admit it. Before anyone else can claim Sherlock's attention. Before they can risk falling back into old patterns. He clears his throat, and blurts out, "I...really need to say something."

Sherlock stares sharply at him, no doubt trying to deduce him. After all, he doesn't usually waste time with such introductions. They'd be more likely to bore his flatmate than anything else. He's been to war. He can do this. "I love you."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow. "Well, of course, John."

Wait, was he always this obvious? Apparently, yes."That's not an answer, though."

"That wasn't a question,"

Ok, not technically, but... "So, are you going to be my...?" Dammit, what word should he use?

"Your what, John?"

"Partner, lover, boyfriend, significant other, or, you know - if you want to create a new term, I'm up for it."

Sherlock smiles, but it's melancholic, and oh fuck, did John ruin everything after all? "Timing," it's all Sherlock says.

Which, ok, fair. It's a bit much to be hit with just after breakfast. "When do you want me to ask?"

"Before I left, maybe?"

Does Sherlock mean for him to use the genie, and has he tried time travel before? Before he can ask, the detective keeps speaking.

"I'm different from before, John."

"What do you mean, exactly?" With the way he got his beloved back, he wouldn't rule out actually getting a creature out of a folklore book.

"Things happened. I'm...damaged."

John almost wants to refute that - nothing happened, because Sherlock had been dead. But he doesn't know, does he? As much as he refuses to believe that Sherlock could have ever earned hell, he's certainly not qualified to argue about what his beloved might or might not have gone through. And in fact, it doesn't matter.

"Yeah, well, I'm not exactly at my peak either. But that has nothing to do with this. I am in love with you. If it means sleepless nights, or not touching you until you're comfortable, if ever, or being careful of new triggers, or whatever else might worry you. I don't mind. I just want - look, I want to know if I have to worry about someone better charming you any day now."

Sherlock snorts. "John, out of the two of us, that's never been your problem."

He laughs. "Fine. Guilty. But really, Sherlock, let me down if you have to, but no excuses. You don't need them. If you can see us together, I want to be. And if you're hurt, I'll do my best to help you heal. I'm the doctor, after all."

"And only a fool argues with his doctor. Are you sure, John? I mean, I know I was a lot even before..."

"And I loved you even then. Sorry I've been slow. Does it mean you - we?"

"I love you, too. I thought I was transparent."

John can find no words. He just smiles. And Sherlock kisses the grin right off his face. Brilliant. So so brilliant.

It turns out that, whatever nightmares may lurk in his partner's brain, he doesn't shy away from taking the initiative, in this or other activities. John might goad him into leaving enough hickeys across every inch of him that he'll never again have to worry about dreaming it all in long hours at the hospital. It's a little bit silly, maybe, but whatever helps both their sanity.

John ends up being grateful for his own past trauma. He knows enough about it to be able to handle whatever his beloved needs.

Which John is very happy about, given that he's accidentally fucked up their old, tight-knit support network a little. Because it's obvious that nobody could pull off Sherlock's resurrection without either supernatural means or accomplices. Every one of their friends basically assumes that it's been one of the others, and can't help but feel bitter about being excluded. They haven't compared notes yet (a side effect of his wish, he suspects) and they're happy enough about Sherlock's return not to cut ties or act too angry. But if John can feel the frost, there's no doubt that Sherlock notices it, too. Never mind. They'll get over it, eventually, John wants to believe. And in the meantime, he's more than willing to bend over backwards to make sure Sherlock isn't too hurt by the situation John himself caused.

So, sure, things are not perfect. But that doesn't stop John from being happy. More happy than he thought he would ever be. And Sherlock...well, he might not wax poetic about them, but his music is all that John needs to not fret about their relationship. Sure, there are bad days, and nights, including the occasional screaming cat (or so it sounds), but then his happiness comes back, and with it, the sweetest and liveliest tunes. They're so, so lucky.

Only it wasn't luck, was it? Not entirely. For months, John hides the lamp, and firmly ignores it. It's a last resort. A safety measure he desperately hopes he'll never need again.

Then one day, when he starts to worry about hiding it better, because Sherlock has never mentioned it again, might even have deleted it for all John knows. if he does find it, there'll be explanations, and possibly his boyfriend will figure out he actually died, and maybe argue what right John had to lie about it... It's a whole can of worms he refuses to open.

Suddenly he realises that the lamp is nothing but physical evidence of his fears. Too many compounded fears. And damn it, John is tired of being scared. So, when Sherlock is out picking up some things for an experiment, he evokes the genie.

"What do you wish for?" the creature asks, looking as if he's tired of everything.

"I wish that, as long as it harms no one, you'll be happy."

"What?" The genie sounds puzzled.

"Well, you made me happy, so - it seems right, that you should be too." John shrugs.

"What if my happiness was being free?"

"Go for it - so long as..."

"First do no harm, yes, yes, doctor. It wouldn't do to have someone think the wish wasn't fulfilled and send me back," the genie huffs, and sounds very much like someone else.

"And don't - make people harm themselves, ok? No making unlabeled pufferfish appear in people's fridges, and say it's their fault if they eat it and die."

The genie laughs, and it sounds vaguely eerie. "Is that what you think of me?"

"No, actually it's what I think of Sherlock, some days, but I figured, genie, genius, there might be a resemblance."

The lamp disappears in a puff of smoke, and John expects the creature will, too. Instead, he's handed an opalescent button with a flourish. "If you need help, tap it thrice. Or if Sherlock wants to be beaten at deductions, maybe. I didn't hate that."

"I thought the point of being free was -"

"That I don't have to obey, or help. But without masters, I can have friends. People who surprise me are rare, John. I wouldn't mind seeing you again." The genie gives him a grin.

"Oh, well... See you around, then-..."

"My actual name isn't exactly pronounceable by humans. Sherlock, though, called me Billy."

Finally, it disappears. John's jaw near hits the floor.