Please

John jumped at the buzzing mobile in her pocket and pulled it out to see her boyfriend's caller ID. She smacked her hand across her forehead and answered apologetically, "I forgot to call."

Martin agreed curtly, "You did."

"Sorry," she hissed and slumped into her chair. She looked at the bathroom door. Sherlock was still showering so she had time to talk. "I got distracted."

"By Sherlock."

"By Moriarty," John corrected sharply. "She called."

Martin sighed loudly into the phone, something shuffling against the speaker. "What did she have to say this time?"

"Nothing good." John rubbed at her eyes, trying to get the image of Noles swaying from chains out of her head. It never worked. Death always lingered longer than it was welcome. "She killed someone else. He was not a very nice man, but still. Not to mention the mysterious box with a smuggled good worth killing for and a manipulating therapist composing murders. It's like Hannibal or something."

There was a uncomfortable pregnant pause before Martin spoke. "And now you need to stop her."

John paused too, uncertain of Martin's careful wording. "That's the plan."

"Does it always need to be?"

John's brow pinched. She wanted to ask what the bloody fuck that was supposed to mean but instead asked nicely, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, don't you ever want a normal life?" Martin slipped into his always calm 'teacher' voice. It really just made him sound like a condescending arsehole. "Where you can have a life and a family and not worry about mass murderers and reckless therapists? I mean, no offense love, but doesn't Sherlock do most of the work anyway?"

John's jaw started to ache and her voice was tiny. "I help."

"She did it before she met you and she can do it once you're gone. I know we've talked about getting married-" Martin laughed without humor. "Did you expect to keep living with Sherlock afterwards? When we get married I want us to have a home, a family. A life together."

John curled further into the chair. "We will."

"But not now," Martin challenged. "If you're not ready for our relationship-"

"No." John hurried to add, "I am- I have been. Please- I just... It's Moriarty. She's evil."

"And she won't be the last evil person out there." Martin huffed. "It's not your job to save them all. You've done your service for your country. Why does it have to go on and cost you your one chance at happiness? You are home. The war is over. You are not a soldier anymore." After another pause Martin sighed. "Look, I got to go. I'll talk to you later. I love you."

"Love you too," John mumbled back into the phone.

Martin was undoubtedly the best thing that had ever happened to her. Of course he made her happy. But Martin was supposed to be different. Part of the reason she loved him was his understanding in her cause.

Yes, Sherlock was the one that did most of the work. And it was unclear if John truly was picking up on her methods and subconsciously providing the correct hint at the exact moment it was needed, or if it was sheer dumb luck.

Dumb luck did sound more like her.

Anyone could run a blog.

Not just anyone could run Sherlock. She was a complicated beast to handle. While she had lived by herself before, she made an absolute mess of things. Drugs, depression, anorexia. All sorts of demons intertwining and tangling with one brilliant, beautiful mind.

If John moved out… when. When John moved out, she would have to visit often. Martin would understand the transition would be hard not only on Sherlock but on John as well.

At least, she used to think Martin would understand.

Then again, Martin still slipped up and accused Sherlock of being a psychopath more than once. A freak. Uncaring of how much it hurt John to hear him treat her best friend like that. Or how important the Work was to both of them.

John would become Joan once again. No more soldier. A domesticated woman expected to go to work, come home to her husband and kids -if she could even have any. She was pushing 40.

No more cases. No more fights. No more adventures.

Sherlock would hate it.

No more Sherlock.

That was what she wanted though. It had to be. No one was fucked up enough to want this life where half of the people you met were either already dead, about to die, murderers, robbers, rapists, or evil masterminds, and the other half were the people trying to put them away- so stressed beyond reason that they could snap any moment themselves. Living between the lines of the law and nearing death as if the journey were a weekend retreat and adrenaline the champagne to be sipped by the beach.

Then again, it took a certain kind of fucked up to be in a happy, committed relationship and still enjoy getting off on being your flatmate's bitch. Picturing her during sex. Oh god, why did she have to picture Sherlock during sex? Not to mention the touching that John was avoiding thinking about at all costs. The hand gliding down her stomach, under lace, over-

"John!" Sherlock snapped her back to reality. "The torch!"

John blinked and shook her thoughts away. She was standing in the middle of the flat, hours after the Martin phone call that she had been replaying over and over. It was completely dark. There had been a power outage on their block. Mycroft had instantly assured them it had nothing to do with Moriarty and everything to do with the horrible weather.

Lightning lit the room from time to time but John was the main source, flashing a torch at the wall of papers Sherlock was staring at. She could not help but think that a desk could replace her at this point.

"Sorry," she mumbled and pointed the light back up.

Kristina Smackle refused to talk to anyone, or so said the doctors at her psychiatric center. She was going through a difficult enough time without having to relive her mental downfall. Besides, she was on so many drugs it would be difficult to get a clear thought out of her. However, that would not deter Sherlock Holmes.

A nurse's outfit was laid out across John's bed that afternoon and the two snuck into their first psych center to smuggle a mobile phone to a patient.

"Why couldn't I just dress as a doctor? I already have that outfit."

"Shh."

Using the notorious Facebook page, Sherlock reached out to Smackle and after explaining how Miller betrayed and ultimately killed Smackle's aunt, she was more than happy to share all the information she had.

Once they found out Gabby Miller had visited Italy around the time she would have smuggled in that box, Mycroft made a few calls. It would take time. For all they knew, the item in the box was not actually from Italy and linked to a chain of smugglers from any country at all.

Sherlock tried to access Skivvies and Lemons again but the game had been dismantled. Moriarty had made good on her promise.

Sherlock was furious. She hated not having all the parts but still needing to solve it. She was trying to focus on the therapist instead, searching for a pattern in the names of his clients and the memory of his office.

The Yard had already visited the office but Grant had continued his leave of absence and no one knew how to contact him. They had a description of his appearance -apparently he did not like to have his photo taken- but he could be literally any man in London. It all circled back to his patients. Sherlock had already linked three separate people to three separate crimes from the files she swiped off the receptionist's computer.

John's eyes flickered over the names on the board, but nothing stuck out at her. She shifted the torch and aimed it over Sherlock's shoulder. She would suggest lighting candles, but that thought was immediately derailed with the memory of hot wax sliding down her back.

John cleared her throat and mumbled, "All these people. They didn't know they were reaching out to Moriarty, but they were. They were desperate for help and she… she's a monster."

"Not all," Sherlock muttered back, never taking her eyes off the wall of names. "Some of these people were simply put with Grant because of scheduling. The man, however deceitful, was qualified to help. It's our job to sort out the helpless from the manipulated."

"Your job," John corrected with a tight smile. She moved back a step to stretch the light out more and watch the rain smack against the window panes.

Sherlock was silent a moment before adding, "You are right."

John's hand tightened and she chewed on her cheek, flinching as thunder cracked loudly overhead.

"She is a monster," Sherlock sighed. "We are the monster slayers. The warriors facing the wyrm with nothing but a sword and a shield."

"And a torch," John added wryly, shaking it a bit.

Sherlock hummed. "And the cocks."

John giggled, "Yes, we mustn't forget those."

The room screamed with silence.

"So?" Sherlock cleared her throat with a small cough. "Are you going to tell me?"

John watched a woman in a white coat run down the sidewalk and flag a cab, her son sprinting beside her, both of them soaked through to the bone. The cab pulled away without seeing them. "Tell you, what?"

"What's on your mind." Sherlock never looked up from the names on the pages in front of her. "You're thinking distractingly loud."

"I can-"

"Just tell me."

John stepped back into her spot and squared up her shoulders. There was a thin strip of exposed flesh on Sherlock's neck, the part her bob arced over. Visible muscles twitched, though she did not turn her head.

"We never finished our conversation from earlier." John said softly. She did not need to explain.

The ghost of those delicate hands crossed over her stomach.

Sherlock's fingers tapped against her open dressing gown.

"You've lit no candles," Sherlock deduced aloud.

"No," John agreed.

Sherlock slowly spun around, her face expressionless, not even squinting at the bright light shining in her eyes. "We must continue."

John grit her teeth. "We must stop."

"We've barely scratched the surface of-"

John held up a hand. "I don't care what you have to say or whatever game you are trying to play or whatever experiment. I'm telling you it is over. Done. No more. I can't do this. It's not working for me, Sherlock. It's not. And-"

"It's working for me," Sherlock said simply. The only movement coming from her was the hitch of her breath and the twitch of a challenging brow.

John sneered. "So sorry that I don't want to be your plaything anymore. That's all I really am to you, isn't it? I mean, what am I even doing here? I'm holding a light, for god's sake." She threw the torch at the couch. It crashed against the wall and bounced onto the cushion. The beam threw new shadows over their faces. "What is the point of me here?"

"You are needed here."

"How? I don't help with the cases."

"Of course you do, don't be absurd."

"No, Sherlock. No, I don't. I'm there to be your muscles and that's it. You could hire people for that. I'm not even a soldier anymore. I'm not worth anything in these situations. This entire case I've barely done a thing. I didn't even know about Kristina till yesterday. I don't even know how you found out about her! I've been lost in this- this- this- mess. And I'm too distracted by Martin to pay attention to what's been going on. You were right. Relationships are a distraction. But I'm not you. I can't not feel things or want things and I-"

"Is that what you think of me? Of yourself?" Sherlock's fingers twitched but she stayed still. "You think I'm an unfeeling puppeteer and you the gun I point at people?"

John's mouth fell open and she blinked hard. Her voice caught. "I- I don't think you need me anymore."

Sherlock jerked back as if slapped. "Of course I need you. Is this what Miles-"

"Martin! His name is bloody fucking Martin! For god's sake Sherlock. Yes! Yes, he is the reason why. He needs me and I need him and-"

"No! He doesn't need all of you. I'm sharing you. Is that not good enough for him?"

"It's not good enough for me either!"

"I'm not enough for you?"

"There are some things you can't give me."

"I believe we saw the other day that I can."

John stepped back now, her face heating. "Is that what that was? You giving me an orgasm just to prove that I don't need a boyfriend? That I don't need a life?"

Sherlock rolled her eye. "You have a life."

"What kind of life? Huh? What am I doing? I'm a middle aged woman running around doing errands and pretending to be the hero. That knight. But I'm not the knight. I'm the servant. The god damn damsel."

Sherlock shook her head vehemently, a lightning strike flashing in her glassy eyes. "Don't you ever compare yourself to a damsel. You are not in distress, John. You are an amazing warrior. A soldier through and through. You help me in more ways than you know. Our role playing, our game, our scenes, you talking to me, doing things you never would allow yourself, are helping me in more ways than you can imagine."

John swallowed thickly and threw up her hands, her body collapsing with her gust of incredulous breath. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"You don't know what it's like to be me!" Sherlock snapped. "I know you can't imagine it, but try. If only for a moment." Her throat bobbed and her eyes pinched. Thunder rolled overhead. "My mind never shuts off. I'm plagued by thoughts and data at every moment of every day. I can't close my eyes to it because it's still there. I can't shut it out. I can't make it disappear. I can't close myself in an isolation tank because even when I'm in there, there are still things to think about. To categorize. I am swarmed by every detail in every direction every day and it drowns me. I can't afford to feel. Anyone who felt would go insane with what I go through. I am nothing more than a piece of technology. Something that takes in data and spits out the answer to the problem."

"You're not-"

"I am." Her eyes flashed open, her gaze hard. "I am as good as a robot in some god-awful science fiction novel. Only, you corrupted me. You showed me what it is like to be human again. In a world where everything is flying past me, you slow it down. You pick out the pieces that I need to see, shove them under my nose, and force me to look. Without you, I know I would be dead." She gasped in a wet breath and charged on, "The drugs did one thing for me. They made me forget what it was like to feel and to think. They sent me to that isolation tank and cleared my processors. Then you show up and I was no longer alone. You surprised me, you derailed me, you made it all stop. You. You have the ability to make it all stop."

The tears that Sherlock was trying so hard to hold back flooded over, but she made no move to wipe them away. John stayed still and waited.

"When I focus on you, I see you and nothing else. When you do as I say, that necklace wrapped around your neck while you pretend to be mine, I categorize only you. It all goes away. I know what you get out of it. It's the same. You stop thinking. You feel. Well, congratulations. You made me feel too. Do not take that away from me. Let me have it while I still can." She closed her eyes, fresh tears still bubbling up in the corners as she tilted her head towards the ceiling. "Please. Don't take this away from me."

John's eyes burned and she rubbed at the corners, surprised to see her fingertips coming away wet. She nodded mutely and sucked in a deep breath. It took her a moment to realize Sherlock had not yet moved, unable to see her. John moved quickly and wrapped her arms around Sherlock's stubborn frame holding her in an achingly tight embrace.

Sherlock twitched and asked, "What are you doing?"

"Hugging you."

"Why?"

John smiled into the corner of Sherlock's shoulder and squeezed tighter. "Because you need it."

"I don't-"

"Endorphins, Sherlock. You get them after several seconds of hugging. Just hug me back, you twat. You'll see what I mean."

Enough time passed for two thunderclaps to sound before Sherlock slipped her hands out from John's grasp and around her back. She tucked her head against John's shoulder and John pretended not to notice the way she reached her hand around to wipe at her eyes.

John simply stayed and breathed in the scent of her emotional robotic knight. Not thinking, just feeling.