A/N - Yes, it's been ages. I'm really sorry. Real life - love it, hate it, can't exist without it.

A recap, since it's been so long: Sherlock took over Jim's life and is planning a heist that takes all of Jim's friends with it. Moran is planning to shoot John. John is trying very hard to be helpful. Lestrade got a special delivery full of interesting information. Jim is crazy and Mary is… out visiting her cousin, probably.

This chapter is not beta-read at the moment. Sorry.

Chapter Nine: The Calm

John's front door had been painted bright red. The previous tenant was a whimsy sort of fellow, the kind who would take the time to paint his own door, but not artistically inclined enough to choose the proper sort of paint. It was flaking off at places, and bloated where it once came into contact with water. The previous tenant was a smoker as well, and he kept a pet in the flat, even though the owner hadn't allowed it. A cat, most likely of mixed breed.

Sherlock had been standing before John's door for quite some time.

It was ridiculous. He should have been feeling the high that so often came at the climax of The Game. Instead, his mouth was dry, his heart was hammering, and he had to consciously stop his hands from shaking. Jim would have laughed if he could see him now. Irritated, Sherlock let out a puff of air and forced himself to equilibrium. He raised his hand to knock, but then his knuckles only met empty air.

"You are a terrible, terrible host, John Watson," Sherlock said, staring down the barrel of a gun, and beyond it, John's bewildered expression.

A shrug. "Thought I saw a shadow under the door." To his credit, John recovered quickly. He stepped back, waving Sherlock inside with his armed hand. Sherlock observed with satisfaction that John looked like he was ready to go, fit to dash out at a moment's notice, outdoors shoes laced and gun now tucked discreet but in reach.

With beautiful punctuality, Sherlock's phone rang. "Thirty minutes, give or take. That's a go," he said, before pocketing his mobile. He glanced at the sitting room, taking in the details of John's current life. "This is… nice." he offered. He supposed that was the sort of thing people said.

"Is it?"

Sherlock shrugged. There were four cups of tepid tea on the coffee table, and evidence of a well-paced rug. "You didn't have to wait indoor the whole day. Interesting events seldom take place before six p.m."

"Well, someone could have let me know when he was planning on showing up," John grumbled. "So, what's the plan, then? and before you ask, I already sent your regards to Lestrade. He took the drive, but he also asked me if I'm still seeing my therapist, so there's that."

"Well, you are."

"Shut up," John said, without heat. He was eyeing Sherlock strangely. A week's worth of brewing questions waiting to burst from his lips. He ended up settling on the one Sherlock did not expect. "Why are you dressed like that?"

Sherlock blinked. He was dressed quite normally. Suit, coat, scarf, hardly anything irregular. He glanced down at himself but spotted no stains or tears. "Is this really the time to dispense fashion advice, John?" he asked, eyebrows raised at John's own corner-shop attire. "Because, no."

"I just meant, you can't be that cold," John said. "You even got gloves on."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and stood a little straighter. "Your point being?"

John's mouth twitched, like he was not quite sure what to do with it. "Just… making an observation. That's all."

"No, no, please," Sherlock said, voice low. "Speak your mind. What brilliant deduction have you made?"

"I haven't-" John shifted his weight from one foot to another. He was smiling a little, the way he sometimes did when he was uncomfortable. "Look, it's fine."

"Fine," Sherlock agreed. He turned his back to John, intent to leave. The view of his gloved hand on the door handle spurred him to twist back, stalking back into the apartment with aggravated steps. He pulled one of his gloves off, almost violently, before presenting his right hand for John to inspect.

"Here," he growled. "As you're so curious."

John was startled, to say the least. He seemed hesitant to look down at the proffered hand. Cool professionalism soon took over, though, as he gently took Sherlock's hand in his own. It was inevitable that sooner or later someone would comment on the many marks Jim had left on him. He simply rather hoped for later.

Sherlock looked away from John's darkening expression. He felt his palm being handled gently, as John examined the small, misshapen puncture marks that looped around it. The scars were old and pale, acquired back in the days Sherlock fought back.

"Barbwire," he explained curtly.

"Been doing much fence climbing, then?" John offered a way out, though clearly not believing it himself.

"Nothing escapes you," Sherlock replied dryly.

John continued in his examination, attention evidently shifting to the pinkie finger Sherlock couldn't quite bend all the way. "When did this happen?" John asked.

"Almost two years ago." Sherlock answered, "It doesn't bother me."

Sherlock saw John's nod from the corect of his eye. He was still looking away, but when John began to push his sleeve up, he withdrew abruptly, nearly stumbling as he backed away. He managed to knock a vase in his retreat. Broken bits of glass scattered across the floor.

"When I'll require a complete physical check - up," Sherlock said through gritted teeth. "I'll schedule an appointment, Doctor."

John was wide eyed in alarm. "I'm sorry," he said, holding his palms out in a calming gesture that only served to aggravate Sherlock all the more. "Do you, uh." He let out a long breath. "Do you want to talk?"

Sherlock's mouth thinned.

"Not now, I mean," John said quickly. "We probably don't have time, but, I mean, I-" he let out a long breath, expression controlled. "I want to help. You. I want to help you." He swallowed. "If that's all right."

Just like that, all the anger washed away, and all Sherlock felt was tired. He pulled the leather glove back onto his hand, and tucked it into his pocket. "I was really only stopping to make sure you're home," he said. "I have an appointment to keep, you can join me, if you'd like."

"Of course I'm coming with you," John said, brow furrowed. "Are we meeting Lestrade as well?" he asked. "You had me send him all this info on Moriarty's grunt. Is that what we're doing? Bringing him in?"

Sherlock felt the corners of his mouth rise despite everything. "Moran is hardly a grunt."

"Seemed like one to me." John pursed his lips, as if debating his next words. "You know Lestrade just got back on the job, right? You won't do anything that might put him in a bad light?"

"Just the opposite, John."

"He's been really ill." John pressed. "I just wanted to make sure you know, in case it makes a difference."

"Of course I know," Sherlock snapped. "It was my fault."

John stared at him mutely for a long moment. Then he asked in a low voice, "How could it possibly have been your fault?"

Sherlock hissed in anger and frustration. He flung himself onto the nearby sofa, covering his face with his hands. "I misbehaved," he said through his fingers, and then winced at how idiotic that sounded. At least it was better than you've been naughty, which was how Jim had put it. "Let me explain."

He took a deep breath. "Jim enjoyed reminding me about our deal. It was your life or mine, always. There were consequences for stepping out of line." Whatever arbitrary line Jim had happened to draw that day. Sometimes Sherlock didn't know about a new rule until after he had broken it. Of course, Jim was never one to be rationed with.

"Consequences?" John asked, voice hoarse.

"Nothing too severe, usually," Sherlock assured. "Nothing I couldn't handle." This was dangerous ground.

"Physically?" John asked softly.

"Mostly, yes," Sherlock replied. "But he'd also threaten to hurt you or the others... and then once, he did." Sherlock bit his lower lip, attempting to stop himself from talking, talking, talking…

"I didn't know until it was too late," he said anyway. "I thought Jim would be focusing on you, not on any of the others, but I think he was saving you for something special."

"I'm chuffed," John deadpanned.

Sherlock's lips quirked briefly, but his amusement soon died out. "Mycroft kept a close eye on the four of you afterwards. He had to be careful about it; Jim couldn't be alerted to what we were up to. He never did try anything else, although in Lestrade's case, it didn't really matter, did it?"

John's voice was quiet. "What exactly happened, Sherlock?"

"They said it was an accidental overdose on pain relievers. Which is suspect under the best of circumstances." Sherlock's eyes narrowed when John didn't reply. "You never believed it was accidental, did you?"

"No," John replied with a sigh. "After everything… after you, can you blame me?"

"Except I never actually attempted suicide and neither did Lestrade. He was poisoned, because I did something stupid." Sherlock's fist hit the coffee table without his consent. He stared down at his fist. "I didn't think."

John let that information sink. "So what did you do to piss off Moriarty?"

Sherlock blinked, looking up at John. "I punched him."

"You punched him?" John's eyebrows made a leap to his hairline.

"Dislocated his jaw," Sherlock imitated a feeble right hook. "He wasn't too happy about that."

John chortled suddenly, staring at Sherlock in appreciation. "Well done," he sniggered. "I think Lestrade would've appreciated it too."

"If it's all the same to you, I'd prefer if he didn't know," Sherlock said stiffly.

John cleared his throat. Gently, he said, "Probably say it wasn't your fault, too."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and meant it. "But I'd rather keep wondering." He let out a long sigh. "What's done is done. Jim won't be able to hurt anyone again."

John licked his dry lips, looking thoughtful. "You know, you keep calling him Jim."

Taken aback, Sherlock hesitated before he replied, "That's his name, John."

"It's just odd that you're on first name basis with him, that's all." John said, tone suggesting that he was trying to pass it off as a joke, although his body language was stiff and nervous.

Sherlock snorted. "We had more than enough time to get to know each other." He climbed up to his feet, patting his coat down for imaginary creases. "Shall we head off, then?"

"To?"

"Bart's Hospital, of course."