Disclaimer: I own nothing

So, counting his blessings: Mrs. Hudson saved him from what was going to be a very awkward, possibly disturbing conversation with Irene. And he's being delicate, because actually, she seems determinate to push any boundaries he might set.

Not that he thinks she would really act nonconsensually – she wouldn't have bothered asking, over and over and over. She would have seized her chance the moment John left. Still, there is a feeling that – like Moriarty, if one thinks about it, that might be why he's so nervous – she will not accept a no indefinitely. He wants to ask her questions. But not when she's leading the dance.

That seems to be the only plus of the day, though, because the landlady's interruption does not come from an instinct to offer tea, or maybe some freshly baked scones. She's announcing a visitor, Another very unwelcome guest, and John is not even back from his stroll to help him deal with the man.

Seriously, doesn't Mycroft know better by now than send his goons to handle him? He doesn't want to obey his brother's summons – certainly not so soon – but as always Mycroft, even absent, has ways to make him bend to his will. An international flight ticket - is Mycroft threatening to exile him? No, wait, specifically, it is a ticket for the very same flight Sherlock deduced not long ago. Something involved in one of his brother's secret service games, then. Is he expected to participate in some capacity? (He won't of course, not until he's solved the John Puzzle). Still, he needs to tell as much to the British government in person.

He tries to sound Mycroft's man, because from what he deduced, this is Coventry's game all over again. His brother knows of a threat to the flight...and he's going to let it happen. Or isn't he? They have their own differences, but he doesn't think that his brother would want him dead, even in a way he could pass as accidental. After all, his brother hates legwork. Until he can work on Mycroft's cases every now and then, his own utility should still be greater than the annoyances he causes.

Or is this a variation on Coventry? Maybe a terrorist will be on the flight, and he's supposed to be on the plane and stop him. Does Mycroft truly think that he can pass such a thing as coincidence? "Sorry for you, but see, we didn't stop your man from getting on board. If we were aware of his plans, we would have certainly arrested him at the airport. The fact that the world's only consulting detective was on the very same plane, and possibly seated right next to him, was nothing more than unlucky chance." Nobody can stupid enough to believe that, can they? At least not if they have enough synapses to plan such an attack.

The goon doesn't bat an eyelid at his wonderings (not that he explains it all – just enough to cause a reaction, he thought). Mycroft taught him well. It's so frustrating! Oh, and speaking of goons – there's a familiar face at the airport, guarding his plane.

There's a bit of him that regrets seeing the man – a ugly thing that says he should have maimed permanently, so that he could never go back to work (oh, but Mycroft would have been miffed at having to smooth that down for him). But seriously, hurting a sweet old lady for information? That's beyond cruel – that's wasteful. Case in point: his landlady still smuggled the phone to safety. The Americans seem to solve all issues with brute violence.

Sherlock is not at all a strict pacifist – but there's a time and a method for everything. Sponsored serial killers? He won't shy away from sharpening the agony of a dying man, because *these* information might save people. Gossip and pillow talk, though possibly state secrets pillow talk? If they knew he had it, they also knew - or should have – that he wasn't interested in the contents. If they'd just inoltrated proper request to Mycroft, his brother might have annoyed him into giving it up without having solved the password conundrum, as much of a slight to his pride as that was.

The man is sincere, which the sleuth appreciates. Death threats are nothing new, really, something to look forward to if the CIA bloke wasn't so uninspired. The agent is respectful, too, which amuses Sherlock to no end. For a moment, he suspects he understands his brother's passion with politics – receiving niceties from people you hate and that heartily reciprocate must tickle his funny bone. That the operative thinks he might be given a pass – no, a reward – for ridding the world of him, even while he knows he has to pay his respects, it's a puzzle. But never mind that. He has a bigger puzzle at hand – and Mycroft won't appreciate dillydallying.

The plane is...surprising. Considering that everyone on board is dead, having a ticket sounds rather ominous. But his brother wouldn't, would he? Whatever Sherlock's done, they'd go through exile to Antarctica or something or the sort first. The detective hopes, at least. Hell, he's beaten up that CIA dude, but he hasn't even killed him. As for the one who died at Irene's...it was his fault for not getting out of the way of the bullet, wasn't it? He hadn't even put up the trap, just triggered it – on their orders, mind.

Oh, no, thankfully all his brother wants is to show off. The perfect solution to the Coventry dilemma. It is mildly clever, Sherlock admits in the privacy of his mind – not aloud, because the fat git is already teasing him for not piecing it together on his own when he got so many clues. (He's right, of course, but there's no need to gloat – it's in bad taste.)

Then again, since his solution – all neat and pretty – has apparently been ruined, maybe the gloating is Mycroft's way of coping. Sherlock very much does not appreciate being made to feel as the slow one (again). So he gleefully mocks back, because honestly, Mycroft is supposed to be the one with the people skills, and if his brother can't see that someone is likely to betray every state secret as soon as a bit of oxytocin is running through him, maybe he's not much better than the sleuth at deductions.

Only the bloody British Government snaps at that, because the fault does not lie with Irene's client, but... with Sherlock himself? Wait, that can't be right. (Besides, he doesn't even have the oxytocin excuse). The sleuth would protest that he's not done anything for Irene, he couldn't care less for Irene, he was playing for John's entertainment – if he didn't know that would only attire more spite, and the Woman does not need to hear that. As long as she thinks she has a hold over him, she will underestimate him, and that's always desirable in a foe. (Also, why the fuck is Mycroft quoting Moriarty? He files that for further consideration.)

Still, underestimating is a thing, ignoring and disparaging is something else. He's here – to be reprimanded, apparently – but the players are Irene and his brother. She thinks she has the upper hand. That she can blackmail Mycroft, of all people. Because otherwise Sherlock will be outed as a breach in security? It would be a scandal, certainly. Not Mycroft's end, though. Not if he drops his little, stupid brother, who can't help but deduce-flirt in the presence of untrustworthy people, like the hot potato he is. After all, even his own soulmate abandoned him to the care of the Woman. Why should family be different? Mycroft certainly can exile him. Or trap him in some dungeon, never to be heard of anymore. That should restore any damage done to his career. As for him...possibly, being permanently separated from John would stop his obsession with the man, and how to gain his approval. (Yes, Sherlock realises that he's messed up for considering that a favourable outcome.)

He's honestly surprised when Mycroft drags him along while he relocates to deal with the Woman more comfortably. Though the British government wants him under his vigilant eye to ensure he does not accidentally tip off any more terrorists while Irene is dealt with. The sleuth wants to pout. It's not like he did it on purpose.

Instead, he just ensconces himself in an armchair by the fire (not his – not nearly as comfortable) and pointedly sulks and ignores the mental minuet going on behind his back. He only speaks when talked to, which he's never done, not even as a child. But he doesn't even mind the depth to which the dominatrix used him. Not just for the code, but to prove to Mycroft that her phone is impregnable.

All along, while he thought he was working on a case – for Mycroft, to amuse Irene, but most of all, to impress John and make him smile – he was playing in her hands instead, and after he's explained his findings he can be thrown with other useless trash like him.

Honestly though, that Mycroft is seriously considering torture makes him lose all respect for his brother. The practice in itself is notoriously bad in obtaining any information of importance. It's not barbaric (well, it is, but that's not the main reason everyone sensible should drop it). It's impractical. And the British government should know and have better persuasive methods at his disposal. Besides, threatening a dominatrix with torture? It wouldn't surprise Sherlock if Irene gave her interrogators technical pointers, in case Mycroft was daft enough to go through with it.

She has all her requests ready, and Sherlock is listening only with one ear, part of him actually wondering where the hell John is and why Mycroft even thought he needed to be present for the negotiation, it's not like he has anything the woman wants... (Well, that's not strictly true, she mentioned being tempted to own him, but Mycroft is not going to have him collared and hand her the leash just to cover his precious secrets...is he?)

Then his attention is suddenly piqued. Moriarty. Behind all of Irene's games, there's Jim Moriarty. (The man has no idea what love is, how can he send any?) The consulting criminal has been harassing Mycroft, who seems ready to snap. It explains why his brother would quote Jim, and still...the sleuth doubts that Moriarty's attentions have really changed object. (He wouldn't mind. Jim and Mycroft can get married, for all he cares...until he puts the first behind bars, at which point he supposes his brother would divorce the man.)

That she would like Jim, is no wonder. That Jim has deduced details about the both of them, and uses that spitefully (there's nothing to sneer at, both Holmes brothers are proud of what they are) just shows how unworthy the man is. But the consulting criminal's involvement suddenly makes this case take on a whole different level of paramountcy.

Until now, it was a game. An exercise in showing off. And yes, a way to investigate things entirely different from the blasted blackmail material, if only Irene had been less aggressive and more open to discourse. With Moriarty involved, John's absence from 221b stops being hurtful and starts being terrifying. Not that the soldier could be abducted from under his nose without jolting him out of his mind palace. Still, he needs to see John now – and for that, this stupid situation needs to be resolved to his brother's satisfaction, or the resulting lecture will last hours.

Think! What passcode would the woman use on her mobile phone? If she were truly clever, it would be completely random...but these are hard to remember. Besides, it's not her style. The safe had her measurements – a little indulgence to her vanity. But this – this is much more important than that. It's her life, her protection. Her heart, in a way. Who do you entrust your life and your heart to?

Well, Sherlock knows the answer as long as he's concerned. The painful, messy, confusing answer. The answer he'd wanted an explanation for by the woman herself, if only she wasn't too busy harassing him. But Irene? Is she the same? Is she just aiming to tease him?

For a moment, he considers a pun. Maybe she expects him to be blind to himself – his own nature, his worth (however little of that there is). It would certainly please Moriarty, a game like that. But no, this is like Hope's game – bluff, double bluff, a way to play with his head (his feelings?). Is she like him? Better than him? It doesn't matter. John might be in Moriarty's hands, right now. He needs to take a bet.

She said that her soulmate wouldn't like if Sherlock was Irene's soulmate too, however one-sided that ended up being. Irene cares for her soulmate's feelings, in a painful, twisted way. She might be like John, or like Sherlock, or be a weird mixture of both. But the consulting detective has taken his decision. He raises.

"We're not beaten yet," he declares, glaring at her. "Because you've committed everyone's fatal error."

"Oh? The baby thinks he's figured that one finally?" Irene retorts mockingly.

"I was there when you talked to John – and you chattered so much, but truth is, you showed your hand. The Woman, the renowned dominatrix, is still a romantic at heart, her heart full of soulmate babble – required and not," the sleuth mentions, just as scathing.

"That was a part – a part I played for your John. Your very oblivious, very daft John. It must be painful, dearie," she quips with a smirk.

"No, no. What about when you thought Kate had been killed by the CIA, in Belgravia? I'm not blind. That was just an ulterior confirmation. I've known since childhood that the very existence of soulmates is the most inescapable cause of death in the world. Thank you for the final proof," Sherlock hisses, stern. "If you'd never met her, if you were able to ignore her, you would have obtained everything you wanted. Now, it's the end for you".

KATELOCKED. Yup. Her life and soul in the hands of her soulmate. And it ends in her death – their deaths. He didn't think the Woman would be that naive. He holds towards Mycroft her phone, unlocked. "Case solved. I expect I'm free to go. We're fine, aren't we?" he says. He's cold, but truth is – he's anxious. He just wants to get home and check where John is and that he's safe. (This will eventually kill him, and oddly, it doesn't even bother him that much. He's skirted death too long to mind.)

Mycroft nods, but Irene's suddenly in the way, eyes shiny with unshed tears. As if he wouldn't be able to fake that at the drop of a hat – is he supposed to be impressed? "If you give that to your brother, I'll be dead," she points out.

"You seem to be eminently adequate at shirking that, and even if you weren't, frankly, it doesn't concern me. The game's finished. I have other priorities," Sherlock retorts. Like stopping your consultant from making a move I can't parry.

"If I die, Kate will die. She doesn't deserve it," the woman explains, as if they might have missed that. Honestly, if her first thought had been for Kate, and only subsequently worry for herself, the consulting detective might have been tempted to help her out. But like this? He's unaffected. "You should have thought of that before biting more than you could chew, then," he says, stepping around her to give his brother the phone.

She clutches at his back and yanks, trying to stop him any way she can. "Wait! Do you want me to beg?" she whimpers – oh, it's for maximum effect. He doesn't think for a moment this is not a show.

"Mycroft might be interested. And it wouldn't surprise me if he had a use for you, so that you could survive. As for me, I don't need to make a point, or prove I'm the alpha. I've never cared about that. I'm simply busy. Kindly unhand me, please," the sleuth states, cold and polite despite being in turmoil over the Moriarty business. Will she just let him go?

She does, defeated. With a nod to his brother, Sherlock hurries away. He lets her a parting shot, because this whole affair has been just such an awful waste of opportunities to learn. To understand. "Things might have turned better for everyone if you'd been less hungry, Miss Adler. Consider it," he points out, leaving without waiting for her reply.

In the meantime, John wanders about Regent's Park, until his leg protests (why is it waking up now? He thought that issue was resolved) and he plops down on a bench by the lake. He wishes his father's religious babble had stuck with him more. He wishes he had any other, not unique name. (Well, not unique, is it? There are his soulmate and his flatmate, at the very least).

Because either of these things – or preferably both – happening would have allowed John to wallow in self-delusion. Sherlock and Irene are not soulmates; therefore, they are incompatible. Nothing would ever happen between them. John is sure that if he asked Molly, she would try to sell him some version of this tale. Bless her, she's such a bright young woman, but clearly ruined by too many Harlequin novels.

John – having given up early on his destined love – has shagged too many people (people whose names didn't even remotely resemble Sherlock) to think melatonin production has any bearing on whether his flatmate and the woman would hook up. And honestly, it was obvious that Irene and his highly frustrating flatmate have chemistry.

The blogger has seen Sherlock solve dozens of cases, but no one quite that quick as the one the dominatrix teased him with. You could have clocked him. If John had known it was going to happen, he would have asked them to wait a few seconds while he unearthed his old stopwatch. Who knows if the Guinness book of records would have accepted it as an entry. Sherlock certainly deserved the extra fame.

Anyway, never mind that the consulting detective didn't look at Irene while solving it (whether Mycroft is right or not, John can empathise all too well with feeling a bit shy around your crush) or that his first reaction was mind-palacing (John can make it a verb, if he wants to). What is eventually going to happen is painfully obvious. With Irene clearly not being adverse to that, all the blogger felt he could do was encourage her and flee the premises.

Because when his flatmate's brain comes back online, and these two gorgeous geniuses jump each other, John does not want to be there and see it. Or hear it. His own mind is already wondering how loud Irene will succeed to make Sherlock scream, and it is already enough self-sabotaging for the doctor. Having his doubts cleared is more than he could bear.

So he gives them his 'benediction' and flees as quick as his legs will carry him. Not that they need it, but it's better than the alternative. Staying and making a spectacle of himself. God, his stomach is upset at the very thought. What if they are loud and he ends up hogging the bathroom by throwing up? It feels scarily probable.

He tries to take his mind off it. To let nature fill his senses – the song of a lonely bird, the play of sunlight against the soft ripples of water of the lake. It does not work. He sees without even seeing, (and certainly not observing – and if Sherlock could just get out of his mind for a second, the blogger would be oh so very grateful).

When that fails him, he attempts to look at other people, random passersby, even subtly overhearing them. John has always been curious towards people, knowing everyone holds a story...and for a time, when he was plunged in the depth of depression, certain that anyone had a much better tale than his own hidden in his life.

Not that the blogger believes that anymore. There's no way anyone has half the giddiness and excitement in their life he's found since he met Sherlock. (And he's back to his flatmate again - how is he supposed to stop thinking of him? Would hitting his head repeatedly against a tree even work?)

That at least makes him laugh. Out loud, all alone, like the madman he's probably turned into since living in 221B Baker street. Part of him misses his flatmate's presence, because giggling with him is one of the best feelings in the world.

Part of him expects to either receive a text (from Irene, more than the sleuth... she seems certainly like the most capable one in managing relationships) with permission to come back, or to have to beg Mike (like hell he's going to Harry) to put up with him for a night. The sight of the consulting detective walking briskly towards him surprises him for a second. He hasn't even changed...he would have if he'd showered, and if he'd been busy with Irene, he would have taken a shower, wouldn't he?

"What are you doing out here, John? Are you actively trying to make a target out of yourself?" the detective scolds sternly, sitting close to him.

"Target? Why would you even think that? Of course I'm not looking for trouble, not now. I just thought you might...want the house to yourself. Well, and Irene. You know." John's reply starts clear, but ends in a mumble. Yup, he's an adult, he's discussed his own and his friend's conquests for more than a decade. But not with Sherlock. Never with Sherlock. There's a sort of...shyness between them, despite the consulting detective's lack of modesty. Possibly because most of such interactions are teasing, and his friend seems to treat the matter with a startling denotative approach.

"No, I don't know, John, but that's a discussion for another time. Please, just come home now," the sleuth retorts, taking hold of his friend's wrist and tugging like an impatient child. That gains him a startled look, but his blogger follows him meekly. The doctor doesn't point out the unusual use of 'please', or – God forbid – ask if the woman finally instilled (beat?) some manners into him. He just waits...to wake up, most probably. The whole Irene case had some surreal notes.

Once they're home – safe, or, errr...safer – Sherlock blurts out, "The woman was actively cooperating with Moriarty. And considering what he did last time, well..." His voice tapers out and he makes a vague gesture, which could mean absolutely anything.

"Were you concerned about me?" John asks, finally putting together the odd sentences and nervous behaviour. True, last time he'd been kidnapped and fitted into an explosive vest. But...

"I know, I know, you were a soldier, you can take care of yourself, and so on and so forth," the detective replies, sounding almost embarrassed to have been caught caring about him. "Just...Moriarty."

"And you're still a mind reader," the blogger remarks, smiling. "But seriously, we know he's still active and possibly eager to harass you. This means we have the advantage. If he repeats himself, we'll just beat him that much quicker. Tea?"

"Mmm..mmm," is Sherlock's only reply. Whether the vague sound means "yes," "I don't care," or simply "I'm trying to deduce Moriarty's next move, why are you even talking to me," the doctor cannot be sure. As always, when in doubt, he opts to consider it a 'yes'. Even if it's not intended like that in origin, there's a good chance that his friend will drink it out of sheer absentmindedness. Tea can't hurt.

The kitchen soothes him, as always. There's something, in the mechanic acts, requiring no thought (he's been making tea since he could reach the counter), that works just as well – or better – than meditation. He's tried that once, at uni, with Gillian (she was rather obsessed with everything she could deem exotic), and he always had to rein in the urge to giggle, feeling ridiculous. The one time he thought he finally succeeded, it ended up he'd fallen asleep instead – and snored, if softly. That put an end to their relationship. Not that John cared overly much.

The detective is sitting in his armchair, feet pulled up and knees drawn against his chest. This is not mind-palace...this is clearly him being defensive. John can read through body language enough to see this. Is he afraid of Moriarty? John wishes that that he could protect him, even inside his brain. Let the insane fucker try to break in 221B.

So, instead of just handing him his tea and finding something else to occupy himself with, John speaks up. "Here. So, Moriarty was working with Irene, uh? And is she going to come over again, or do you think she's played her role in whatever game that madman has planned?"

Sherlock waves his concerns away. "Of course Irene's part in the play is done. Disappointing in the end, truly, I expected more cleverness out of her...but you know. The heart is always the downfall of the best and brightest. Or not so bright, if they allow feelings to dominate them. Her phone is broken into, Mycroft can play with her if he wishes. Maybe he would be less snarky afterwards."

At that, his blogger can't help but snort loudly. His friend complaining of Mycroft's attitude...that's rich. They needle each other all the time. "If Mycroft became suddenly pleasant, you wouldn't be able to stand it," he points out, pointedly ignoring the jibe about feelings. That will need more consideration later.

"Probably," the detective acknowledges, his lips quirking.

"I'll get to cooking something. Since the Irene matter is resolved, and the consulting criminal has not made a move yet, I insist you eat," John announces, hoping his friend will not consider the looming danger as 'ongoing case'.

"Is this your opinion as a medical professional?" the sleuth queries, between sips.

"Decidedly," the doctor declares, daring him to object.

The consulting detective apparently knows better than to try that. "Well, then, only a fool argues with his doctor. I have no idea if we do have ingredients for any sort of dish in the fridge, though."

"Of course you don't. You're not the one who does the shopping," John retorts, shaking his head in fond exasperation. "Don't worry, I'm pretty sure I can figure something out." Actually, there was something he meant to try for a few days now, but there had never been time. Once he was too tired from work, once Sherlock was sulking and not eating, once they were on a case and hungry and there was no way they were going to wait for food to be cooked, that's what pizza was for.

John retires to the kitchen, and after a few minutes, he feels his flatmate's eyes on him. "No experimenting during the cooking, I thought we agreed on that, Sherlock," he reminds him kindly.

"Just curious of what you're preparing," the sleuth replies, sitting at the table.

John turns towards him, still automatically chopping onions, "Ok, now confess, who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Certainly me seeking information is not against my nature," the detective protests, wrinkling his nose.

"About food? A bit. By the way, I hope I remember this recipe. It's a while since I tried that," his blogger retorts, smiling.

"Afghan recipe?" the consulting detective…well, with anyone else John would have used guesses, but Sherlock would have a fit if he utilised such a word aloud, and the doctor isn't sure his friend isn't actually able to read minds. So he mentally corrects himself to 'deduces'.

"Nailed it in one, but you have to explain me how you inferred that. I mean, I haven't even got the spices out yet," John replies, preparing to be dazzled.

"No you didn't, but you looked towards the cabinet where we keep them, considering if you wanted everything lined out or if you preferred to take them out at need. True, not only the spices are in that cabinet, but balance of probability, given the food already out. Besides, you clearly have fond memories of this recipe, you can't stop smiling while preparing it. It reminds you of happier times…and for you, these do not mean home life. School or service, with spices being an important ingredient, my hypothesis was Afghanistan. Maybe a recipe shared from some civilian you saved?" Sherlock expounds, machine gun quick.

"Yep. Technically, I saved their kid – the poor boy got too close to a mine while playing, one of his friends triggered it…that one I couldn't do anything for, such a tragedy…," the doctor recounts, his voice choking. He'd seen that and worse. But it never got easy to face, or even think about it.

Sherlock quietly gets up and holds him from behind – gingerly, silently. Not even a proper embrace, not tight, just…being there, and hoping he's not doing it wrong and will make his friend bolt. The awkwardness melts John's heart more than the sympathy. A couple of breaths, and he gets himself under control enough to continue to the happier part of his tale.

"His family decided they'd feed me up until I was moved. I told them they didn't have to, I was just doing my job, and I wished I could have helped more. The father replied I would offend them if I refused, so… in the end, we became friends – sort of. And before being transferred, I had to ask for a couple of recipes. The boy's mother was so proud!" he narrates, continuing to chop vegetables, and sort of hoping his friend won't move away.

"I'm sure," Sherlock rumbles, way too close to his ear. Technically, John knows he's there, but his brain ha clearly not caught up yet. The result is that he startles and, instead of chopping tomato, almost chops his last phalanx right off. He has enough sense to only almost do it, but it's a close call.

The sleuth looks almost as badly shaken by that as he is, and he immediately takes a step back. "I didn't mean to put you in danger," he mumbles, stricken.

"You didn't," his blogger assures, "I just need to pay more attention. Take the chicken out of the fridge, will you?"

Sure enough, being asked for his involvement in the preparation of food, the detective scrunches his nose. "Why?"

"Because if you have any body parts in there I could get mixed up with, I don't want to see them now. At least you know what we have in there who should never end inside a pan. Seriously, Sherlock, half the time you make me seriously contemplate going vegetarian. Maybe I should," the doctor quips back, shrugging.

"Nonsense. You don't even like legumes that much. Not as a main course. You'd keep them as a tiny helping side dish and eventually end up seriously lacking proteins. Here," Sherlock declares, giving up and handing over the meat.

John huffs, but it is probably true. His friend keeps observing the proceedings, without another remark, and soon(ish), the colourful dish is ready. Chicken, onion, tomato, peas, curry, turmeric. He suspects he might have overcooked the chicken a bit, but all around, it looks and smells remarkably like the one he was offered back in Afghanistan.

"Try it," he prompts, filling a plate for his friend as well as one for himself. Sherlock does without protest – he'll have to remember the day – and actually makes a rather…suggestive noise. Not one to make Irene's text warning to shame, but close enough that John regrets not having thought to record it beforehand. It is close to the reaction he had himself, trying the recipe for the first time, but he'd chalked his overenthusiasm to mess' food being…well, not the best.

Sherlock goes through his plate like a steamroller, to John's delight, and when it's empty, he asks for more. Of course, the empty dish is filled back, and the doctor makes a mental note to always keep the ingredients in the freezer. You never know when you'll need to coerce a sulky consulting detective to eat. That kind Afghan family has done more for him than they can ever know. He feels a pang of regret, knowing he has no way to find out what's happened to them or thank them personally again. If he just announces casually he's taking a plane back to the warzone, he's sure that Sherlock would have a fit, and possibly Mycroft would send the MI5 to arrest him at the airport.

"We're not having this anymore. Ever," the sleuth declares just then, and John looks at him, shocked. His friend likes this. He obviously likes it very much. So why the veto? The blogger doesn't have to ask, his puzzlement surely painted on his face. "It makes you sad," his flatmate mentions, as if it explains everything.

John's heart threatens to burst at the show of consideration for his feelings from the usually emotionally oblivious consulting detective. "Not sad," he objects, "just…melancholic, a bit. But it is a good feeling. A good memory. Not a trigger. I don't need to avoid that. Thanks for the thought anyway. That was very…kind of you, Sherlock."

"Oh. Good. Then, the recipe bears repeating. Definitely. Every time you want," the sleuth corrects himself, an eager look in his eyes.

"Duly noted," the doctor acknowledges. He's wise enough not to offer to make it every time his flatmate likes, because otherwise they won't eat anything else for a long while, and he doesn't want to risk this losing his efficacy to ensure Sherlock will eat his fill by inurement.

It's a silly, happy evening. John has somehow managed to chase Moriarty's shadow for the night. If only it was always so easy.

P.S. I know, I know, many of you will think I ruined this. I still think in this universe it makes sense. Forgive me?