Warnings: Explicit, Rated M, Johnlock, PTSD, John angst

Part Two

"We could take a break."

John glanced up from tying his trainers. "Huh?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and kept staring out the window. Not much to see. Great view of the car park. "Explore."

"What's there to explore around here?"

"That's the thing. I have no idea." Sherlock turned a smile in his direction. "I've never been in here. Terra incognita."

"Kinda boring terra."

"Perhaps. Let's find out."

With a disgruntled feeling he didn't quite understand, John shrugged. "We're only two kilometers from the airport with tickets in hand and you want to explore again?"

The smile didn't falter. "Tickets can be changed, John. Or do you not want to explore?"

"I'm okay. You said it yourself. Just nerves."

"Exactly. And the closer we get to London, the worse they get. Don't they?"

"I guess," John mumbled.

"So let's sightsee. Go out tonight, do something besides sit in a hotel. What do you say?"

"Whatever you want."

His lack of enthusiasm was either dealt with or ignored, he couldn't say which. But they did sightsee. Killed a few hours. Much bigger than he'd thought, and much more cosmopolitan. Interesting to see a city that wasn't quite as tacky as London could be. Not tacky at all, in fact.

"A lot of people stopped here before heading west," Sherlock remarked, gazing out the window at the enormous, ornate houses they were passing. "It was a primary staging area for pioneers."

"The Chamber of Commerce should hire you," John replied dryly.

"Indeed."

John watched the houses go by, pretty, sure, what the hell, better than looking at Sherlock's concerned face.

And superimposed over that, another face. Not nearly so handsome, and a whole different flavor of caring. The terrible interest of a madman, maybe. Moriarty holding a military style assault rifle. Two traumatic events in his life beginning to meld together.

He leaned his head back against the seat and sighed.

They had lunch late, no crowds, which was a relief. He picked at his pasta and pretended he was eating, but hell, who was he trying to kid? Not like he'd been able to slip anything by Sherlock before, and for sure not now.

"Want to talk about it?"

John glanced over at Sherlock and shrugged. "I freaked."

"Well, yes."

His cheeks burned. "I don't regret it," he added hoarsely.

Sherlock smiled a little. "The 'freaking', or the other stuff?"

"The other stuff."

"Neither do I."

He speared a piece of chicken on his fork. "I think -" He set his fork down. "I think that's what Moriarty wanted, too."

Sherlock's eyebrow went up, but he said nothing. He looked doubtful.

John hesitated, but continued. "He… Before the pool, before the…" John motioned to his chest, indicating the vest of explosives. "He had me for three hours. A madman, ranting. Obsessed. Made comments to me…" John struggled with the rest of the words so he stopped. "He called me your dog."

"Pet." Sherlock corrected, as if that made it better.

"I'm just saying…It's not just you it seems he could be obsessed with."

Sherlock shrugged dismissively and John fell silent. Obviously, Sherlock didn't take this opinion seriously. John felt wounded, but didn't show it.

They fell quiet for a few minutes.

"So did you freak?" John asked tentatively, changing the subject as best he could.

"Not exactly. In my own way, yes."

John stared down at the napkin he held. "I don't feel like I'll ever feel safe again," he mumbled, and started tearing the napkin into long shreds. "Between the war, the kidnapping, bombs going off …all the crimes… I don't feel safe."

Sherlock nodded. "Our mind is a sanctuary, it's where we relax, become fully ourselves." He pushed his plate away. "When someone violates that sanctuary, it can be very hard to get past it."

"Maybe put up some bolted doors? Create my own 'mind palace'?"

"That's a start." Sherlock smiled. "Come on. Let's get out of here and go for a walk."

Outside the weather was gorgeous, warm and sunny, and John inhaled deeply before glancing at Sherlock. "Feel better?" Sherlock asked, still smiling.

"Think so, yeah."

"Good."

After some wandering there was a park, sprawling and not too filled with people. John sat next to Sherlock on a bench and leaned his head back, soaking in the sun.

"So that was a panic attack, huh."

Sherlock nodded, unreadable. "Yes."

"Never had one, heard of them obviously and seen patients with them. Probably have come close, what with the nightmares but I always kept enough in check... I just- I was just so sure I was dying."

"Textbook."

John squinted at him. "What happens if I have another one?"

"We'll deal with it."

"Thank you," John whispered thickly.

They had dinner that night at some out-of-the-way bistro, where the smell of good bread and savory things actually awakened John's dormant appetite. Or maybe his body was finally screaming, ENOUGH! Eat or DIE, you moron! Whatever the case, he cleaned his plate and caught Sherlock's approving look.

"I do eat, you know," John said tartly.

"I see that," came the grave reply, which made him laugh.

A couple of beers at a tiny microbrewery later, and John was ready to call it a night. Unsure whether or not Sherlock's sudden social turn had eased up or what, but he didn't object to going back to the hotel. And when John walked inside their room, a familiar sense of unease reared its head and made his throat feel tight.

"I'd offer a penny for your thoughts, but in this case I think I don't need to," Sherlock said softly.

John wrapped his arms around himself, shaking his head. "Sorry."

"I'll offer a pound if you'll stop saying that."

John turned him a shaky smile. "Make it 100 and I'll try."

Sherlock smiled back. "When you come home John, what do you normally do? You check the blog? Emails? See what's on telly?"

"You know that's what I do."

Sherlock reached for the remote and to both of their amused amazement, Jeopardy was on. They watched silently together, comfortable that whatever anxiety he still felt didn't seem very powerful when Sherlock kissed him. It was just a kiss. A very good kiss, in fact.

"Don't you want to see who wins?" John asked fuzzily, propped on one elbow while he let himself explore Sherlock's neck with his lips.

"I already know."

"You do, huh."

"Yes."

Of course he did. He caught a flash of Sherlock's grin before another kiss erased all thought of the sand, the pool and anything else.

Later, Sherlock paused, staring down at him. "What?"

"Nothing," John gasped, swallowing hard. "I'm okay. Christ, you're - really good at that."

Sherlock gave him a tiny smile and leaned down to kiss him luxuriantly. "I was always an overachiever," he murmured against John's mouth. "Can't get enough of you."

When Sherlock drew back again, there was an expression on his face John had never seen before. "What?" he asked, feeling a little like Sherlock himself. "What is it?"

"You know you can set the limits, right? Tell me if I do something you don't want to do."

"S-sure."

Sherlock sat back on his haunches, stroking the insides of John's thighs where they lay open over Sherlock's lap. "I don't want to go too fast," he said quietly.

John's throat was suddenly very dry. "You want to fuck me, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded slowly.

"I've never -"

"I know."

Heart thudding in his chest, John blurted, "I don't know if I can do that."

"I won't make you. Trust me, John. I won't make you do something you don't want to do."

"Even if you want it?"

"Even if I want it."

John sighed, turning his face away. "I don't know what it's like," he said clumsily, feeling his cheeks burning. Sherlock's hands on his thighs felt almost unbearably good. Making him hard again, damn it. "I guess - I thought about it a few times."

"That's promising." Sherlock untangled himself from John's legs and lay down beside him, on his side, head propped on his hand. "What did you think about?"

Rolling over to face him, John sighed. "I dunno. Every time I think about it… I think about… him."

"You can't be sure that's what he really wanted, John," Sherlock said softly, reaching out to touch his thumb to John's cheek. "I'm not sure you can boil it down to sex. It's clearly not about you, he's admitted it's about me. You were just a tool he used to get to me. How can you be so sure that that's it?"

"I know. Just a feeling." John smiled, flushing harder. He knew Sherlock needed facts, not feelings, so he would dismiss it. "Jeez, I can't believe I'm sitting here - lying here - having this conversation."

Sherlock smiled, too. "Can't say I planned it, myself."

John drew a deep breath. "But you thought about it? About me?"

"Give me a second to think about how to answer this without seriously undermining my reputation."

"So you did."

"Yes."

John gazed at him, recognizing the flush in Sherlock's cheeks with wonder. "Wow," he said weakly. "I had no idea."

"Good. Hopefully my professional image isn't too tarnished, then."

"Well, with me -"

"With the others," Sherlock interrupted with a grin, and bent forward to kiss him. A kiss that led to more kisses, and John had to grit his teeth to keep from crying out when Sherlock's thigh slid between his own.

"So this sex thing," he mumbled against Sherlock's neck. "Hurts, right?"

"At first, a little." Sherlock kissed him briefly and deeply. "Not forever. There's a reason why people keep doing it, you know," he added with a flashing smile.

"I - Well, yeah. Hadn't thought about it that way."

"There are many other things we can do, John," Sherlock whispered, taking John's hand and sliding it between his own legs. "Many, many other things."

Smiling, John leaned forward to kiss him, inhaling Sherlock's harsh gasp when John took him in hand and stroked surely and easily.

They sat together in the boarding area of the airport. Sherlock's phone beeped. What was that, the… seventh time today? The more overdue they got, the more strident the calls. Sherlock sighed as another text came through. John didn't ask but he felt he knew. More crimes, cases, murders, rapes… All sitting unsolved and John almost felt guilty about his own worries. Sherlock's jaw was tense.

The wheel and the cog, remember?

"I'm -"

"Don't say it, John. They can manage."

John refocused straight ahead.

"I have to go to the Yard when we get in," Sherlock said crisply, fingers briskly tapping texts on his phone, as if they really were already back. John's stomach clenched. "Just to reassure everyone we are indeed still alive. An hour, tops."

John nodded mechanically. An hour for Sherlock meant eight. He did have a tendency to run off on cases that intrigued him.

"I mean that, alright? Just an hour."

John looked at him, meeting Sherlock's steady, all-too-knowing gaze. "Right," he said faintly.

"I'll drop you off at Baker Street. You can catch your breath, and I won't be long."

"Okay."

He felt Sherlock ease, just a faint bit.

One layover and more hours than he cared to count, they were back.

John edged cautiously into the kitchen, all familiar sounds and smells of their flat.

He'd wandered back into the living room when Sherlock re-emerged, on the phone again and carrying one shoe in his hand. "I told you, I'll come by in a few minutes. But I'm still on holiday, remember? So don't count on me sticking around." A pause, while he dropped the shoe on the floor, stuck his foot in it, and listened. "John's fine. Good." He glanced at John and smiled. "See you when I get there."

John smiled weakly. "Greg?"

"Detective Inspector Lastrade, yes. I don't think he wants to be the 'boss' anymore," he added, straightening the crease in his pants and added a wink to John.

"Well, you do set the bar pretty high."

Sherlock looked at him, and then walked over, plucking a finger on John's hand like a violin string. An odd gesture, but purely Sherlock. "Maybe," he replied, smiling. "Welcome home, John."

"Thanks."

Sherlock studied him for a moment, reaching out to take John's free hand. "It's going to be okay," he said quietly, pressing a kiss on John's fingers. "Come on, sit down."

"One step at a time, okay? Bird by bird, John, just take it bird by bird."

John smiled inside the comforting loop of Sherlock's arm. "What quote is that?"

"Wonderful book on writing. That's the title: Bird by Bird. Anne Lamott."

"Is there anything you don't read?"

"Far too much to even consider. Lamott got the title of the book from something her father said to her brother one time. Child was agonizing over a book report on birds that was due the next morning, that he hadn't even started yet. So her father said -"

"-Take it bird by bird." John nodded, brushing his cheek against Sherlock's shirt. "I get it."

"And when you're ready to come back to work, come back. I don't plan to replace you, you know. Not unless you tell me to. But I think we both know I wouldn't."

"No," John whispered roughly. "I'll come back."

Sherlock inhaled deeply, reassured. "Good."

It felt both astoundingly weird and terribly reassuring to kiss him, back on home soil, back in a city he hadn't really known if he'd ever see again. The city he still wasn't sure about; the kiss, well. Pretty much felt great.

"I really have to go."

John sighed against Sherlock's throat, relishing the way Sherlock shivered in response. "I'll kick your arse if you stay all night," he murmured, smiling.

"Keep that up and I won't go at all."

"Promise?"

Sherlock drew back to kiss him once, firmly, on the mouth. His face was gratifyingly flushed. "You're really not playing fair, you know," he said in a hilariously plaintive voice.

John grinned, and shrugged. "I'd apologize, but."

"Yes. Okay." Sherlock drew a deep breath and let it out in a whoosh. "Okay. Good bye John."

Mercifully the ridiculous blather that immediately popped into his head - I need you - didn't make it past his lips. John nodded. "I'll be okay, Sherlock. Go do your thing."

"Back in a few."

Someone touched his arm, and he awoke with a jerk.

"It's just me."

John blinked in the darkness. Shit, what the hell time was it?

The bed shifted when Sherlock sat down.

"Thought you said an hour," John said muzzily.

"Well." Now there was a faintly guilty tinge to the words. "Not much more than an hour. You alright?"

That's called deflecting, John considered saying, and then let it go. "I crashed. I smell food."

"I brought back some takeout." Sherlock brushed John's cheek with his fingers. "Hungry?"

"I guess."

He trailed behind Sherlock out to the dining room, where he sat down and stared at his kung pao chicken. Ah. Their comfort food.

"So how was it? Good to be back? What interesting cases this time?"

Sherlock fished out a piece of broccoli with his chopsticks. "Some things never change," he said through his food. "One thing's for sure: We'll never be out of a job."

John nodded, and poked at his food with a fork. "How's everybody doing?"

"Fine. They asked about you."

"Donovan too?"

"Donovan too."

Sherlock went quiet, working on his food while John faked same, and finally put his chopsticks down. "You're tired," he observed mildly.

Talk about a keen grasp of the obvious. "Yes. More than I thought, I suppose."

"Go back to bed, okay? I'll be in in a minute."

With a sadness that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at the same time, John trudged back to the bedroom. Pretty basic, but Sherlock had a comfortable bed, and that was primary, he supposed. His skin prickled with sudden nameless dread, and he sat down hard on the bed's edge.

Well, now's a shitty time to have another freakout, Johnny boy. What do they say about making your own bed? Lie down, boy. Johnny boy. Why had he called him Johnny boy? The pet… Come on lie down boy.

And spread 'em.

He stifled whatever sound was trying to get out of his throat, and stood up fast. The room was way too small suddenly. The flat was too small, hell, the fucking CITY was too small. Couldn't fucking BREATHE here.

"John?"

This time the sound made it out anyway; a strangled kind of yelp that made him feel like laughing hysterically at the same time that he felt his throat immediately closing up. Oh CHRIST, not this again, no no FUCK NO

But this time it didn't help when Sherlock came over. John pushed at him wildly, staggering back against the far wall. One hand went to his throat, and all that was in his head suddenly was digging his nails in and getting it OUT, whatever it was that wasn't letting him breathe, that was CHOKING him.

"John, stop it." Strong hands on his wrists, pulling, and he snarled something and pushed again, hard, but Sherlock held on anyway.

And something inside him shivered and broke, like a glass shattering on concrete.

He struggled inside Sherlock's arms, panting and shaking his head, and in the midst of it all he could say was, "I don't want to be here, please, I don't, please just let me GO, please."

"Jesus, John," Sherlock said hoarsely. His arms were shaking, too. "It's okay, it's okay." Sherlock sounded helpless, and it was that tone that made John frantic.

"It's NOT okay!" John dug his hands into Sherlock's shirt, pulling until the fabric started to tear. "It's not fucking OKAY!" He said it with the same vehemence as in the lab, trying to tell Sherlock of the Hound he KNEW he saw.

"No, it's not, is it." Sherlock's grip loosened, and John clung harder, irrationally.

"Sherlock," he gasped. "Oh God, I'm going crazy."

"You're not crazy, you're not. I swear to God you're not."

"Don't let go of me," John whispered fiercely, blinking away tears. "Please, please don't let go?"

Sherlock's arms linked around John's waist. "I won't. I promise you."

"I don't know what's happening to me. Sherlock, I'm so fucking scared."

"Just breathe, John," Sherlock murmured, rocking him gently. "Hold on, and breathe. That's it."

After a long, blank moment of nothing but the reassuring solidity of Sherlock's body against his own, Sherlock said softly, "Come on, John. Lie down. You're so tired."

God, he was tired, and yet every muscle in his body burned, too, jittery with a fear he couldn't even begin to quantify, much less really understand yet. He let Sherlock lay him on the bed, and managed to loosen his death grip on Sherlock's shirt long enough for Sherlock to slip out of it and lie down next to him. And then it was so much like that first night, that first time in too long that he'd felt truly safe, that he clung with mindless, frantic strength all over again.

"Sleep, John," Sherlock whispered, one hand smoothing down John's back in long even strokes. "Nothing's going to happen to you tonight. I won't let anything happen. Close your eyes."

He breathed in the clean smell of Sherlock's aftershave and did so, gratefully.

It was a perfect day. Not too hot, yet, and of course no humidity. All in all, a great day to be outside.

John poked at chicken in the pan and squinted. What time had Sherlock said he'd be back? Four hours ago, or five?

Ah, what the hell. He picked up the plate and started laying more chicken breasts on the pan, breathing in the savory sizzle.

By the time Sherlock actually did get back, the sun was almost gone, the neighbor's dog was whining next door, and the chicken looked and smelled fantastic.

"Hey, good timing," John called, seeing Sherlock at the back door. "Hungry?"

"Starving." Sherlock walked into the kitchen and blinked at the cooking. "Didn't know you did that."

"I can't." John grinned, forking the last piece of chicken on a platter. "I can try, though."

"In this kitchen? Didn't know it was still capable. Smells fantastic. Thank you." Sherlock came over and kissed him soundly.

John nodded, covering the pan and reaching down to close the vents. "I figure I better do something other than occupy space, you know? Called my mum for her recipe. Come on, I got a salad, too."

Sherlock ate hugely, and John took one bite and felt a wave of sweet homesickness wash over him. So this was Mum's secret recipe. Tasted just like home.

"It's all in the marinade," John said when Sherlock gave him a wide-eyed look of approval.

When most of the food was demolished and the rest put away John stood and looked out the large windows of the living room. A great day had turned into a gorgeous evening, cool and tangy with lingering cooking smells and the aroma of mesquite. "So how was work?" he asked.

"Exactly the way I left it. You ought to come see everyone. They still ask about you."

John's replete smile faded. "Yeah," he agreed softly. "Yeah, I'd like to see them, too."

They were silent again for a moment, and John was growing comfortable with this. They often before had long stretches of silence together but this… Was definitely more comfortable than before.

"I've been thinking about work," John said finally.

"Oh?"

"I do want to come back."

"Well, you know you can, anytime you want."

John nodded. "I appreciate that."

"Personally I think your colleague is a candidate for sainthood."

"How much can I laugh before you fire me?"

"Try me and see."

John grinned and glanced at Sherlock, absurdly pleased to see the relaxed look on Sherlock's face. "How about next week?"

"Next week would be fine." Sherlock took a step closer and slid his arm around John's waist, and John felt the constant hard knot in his chest loosen a bit.

John turned and gave in to the hug he'd wanted all evening. "Ok," he whispered, closing his eyes and leaning against Sherlock. "That's good."

Considering the fact that he had about as much experience sucking cock as Sherlock did as a fraternity president, he thought he was picking up the technique pretty well. He waited for the sarcastic internal commentary, but for once the nasty voice was silent. Thank God. Because this took some focus, after all.

"Shit," Sherlock groaned, hands tense at his sides. "You've been - s-studying."

"I have a great teacher. I know what you wanna do. Do it."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"Come on." John encouraged.

A little part of him still marveled at this, and probably would for a while yet, but it hadn't taken long to find out he kind of enjoyed Sherlock taking over, at least in some areas. It felt weirdly good to feel Sherlock's hands holding his head steady, to just - take it, grabbing a breath when he could and just -

Okay, the swallowing part was still a work in progress. Sorta choked him, and the taste was going to be, um. Acquired. But it was amazing to hear Sherlock come. Noisy and completely uninhibited, total about-face from the public persona, the Vulcan.

Crazy to be proud of making some guy come, but then this wasn't some guy, was it?

He held the tip of Sherlock's softening cock in his mouth, until Sherlock finally opened his eyes and blinked at him.

"I really like that look," John said softly, and licked his lips.

Sherlock smiled. "Come here," he said in a hoarse voice.

"Yeah, I quite like it." John crawled back up to blanket Sherlock with his body, and got a slow, sated kiss. "You like it?"

"I like it," Sherlock whispered. His fingers trailed down John's spine while they kissed again. When Sherlock's hand reached his ass John drew a sharp breath, an unexpected shiver of - something, something not at all bad - making him arch his back. "You like that?" Sherlock asked smokily, mouth quirked in a smile.

John nodded, shivering again as Sherlock's hands cupped his ass, gently kneading. "Can't keep - your hands off that, can you?" he managed.

"Come here."

He kneed his way up the bed, steadied by Sherlock's grip on his ass. Christ, his dick had been hard before but now it felt like he could probably hammer fucking NAILS with it, and there was Sherlock, just eating him up like he was candy.

John threw his head back and groaned, because as great as it felt to get his cock sucked, it was somehow just as great or maybe even better to look down and see his dick disappear down Sherlock's THROAT, and if he watched too much he'd just blow his load in a millisecond, JESUS H. CHRIST.

Sherlock's fingers stroked past his asshole, and John felt a jolt of heat sear through nerves he hadn't ever thought much about, a warm wash of sensation from his ass straight to his dick.

"Ah, FUCK."

Sherlock chuckled and the sensation was indescribable. And then something was IN his ass, a warm, slim, slippery fingerlike something, that didn't feel bad but felt mindbogglingly GOOD, and John's brain melted.

Only gone a few seconds, but MAN, what a way to go. He tried to breathe, still flexing and jerking in hectic tandem, and finally Sherlock let him go, dick and ass both, which was probably necessary for continued cognitive function but that didn't mean he had to like it, DAMN, wish that few seconds could last HOURS, fucking DAYS.

Somehow he got himself untangled from sheet and pillow and managed to lie down without falling off the bed, all twitches and limp muscles, and Sherlock pulled him close against his side and kissed him. Weird to know that was his come in Sherlock's mouth. So weird it was sort of hard to think about.

"So," John wheezed, collapsing bonelessly.

"So." He could almost hear Sherlock's grin.

"So that was my ass."

Now Sherlock laughed. "Among other things."

"Not too bad."

"Not too bad?" Sherlock yelped indignantly, and John snorted laughter. Raising himself on one shaky elbow, he made a considering face.

"I guess I'd be willing to give this thing a try," he murmured, feeling his heart do a little skip in his chest.

"Would you, now."

John nodded slowly. "Yeah." He didn't feel much like laughing anymore. "I would."

Sherlock locked eyes with him, a potent gaze that made John's chest tighten up again. "So would I," he whispered.

The first case John was back on was easily a 4 on the scale for Sherlock. John was sure he took it because it was "easy" and therefore "harmless" for John's current mental state. Lastrade wasn't even at the crime scene, it was one lieutenant and clearly two rookies.

"This is the case you want to take? Please don't patronize me Sherlock, you can do what you want, take any case you want." John sounded exasperated.

Sherlock strolled along the police tape, hands behind his back. "Oh? Disappearing woman from a locked room? Doesn't intrigue you?"

John stared flatly at Sherlock, studying him. He sighed. "Fine then. Let's get to work."

They hailed a cab home only 2 hours and 39 minutes later, crime successfully solved. The woman was dead, stuffed in an air vent of the facility. Custodial staff member who's advances were brushed away. Blunt force trauma to the head John had said. Obvious, really. Clearly a 4.

"At least that's over."

Sherlock didn't say anything to that, and he didn't have to. They both knew it. There'd be something else waiting for them tomorrow. Probably worse, but what could you do? Keep your head down and focus on the evidence, wasn't that what Sherlock always said? There were worse ways to work.

But it didn't lift his spirits, regardless. He watched the city go by outside the cab, ordinary people, people who didn't have to find dead women stashed in air vents, or listen to the fucking cries of innocence from guys who were so guilty they might as well have five-foot neon signs flashing over their heads.

Truth was, evidence was horrible. And that meant that a hell of a lot of people were rotten to the core, since it was their evidence that he and Sherlock hunted all night. Like reading spoor in a jungle, predatorial droppings like souvenirs of sickness.

And he wanted to come back to this?

Should have stayed in Canada.

"Don't do that, John," Sherlock said softly.

"I'm not doing anything."

Sherlock didn't bother replying to that one.

Returning back to Baker Street, John headed straight to bed. No food. No telly. No blogging. Just bed.

Sherlock sat down next to him on the edge, his body vibrated nervousness. It didn't suit him. "Talk to me. All right?"

John shrugged, feeling muleish. "What do you want me to say? I'm glad to be back?"

"Say whatever you feel."

He glanced at Sherlock's concerned eyes and flinched. "I'll get used to it again," he muttered. "Just a weird night."

"Coming back tomorrow?"

John frowned at him. "Well, yeah," he said. "I said I would, didn't I?"

"Yes, you said you would." Sherlock leaned back against the headboard, half-turned in John's direction. His gaze felt all too penetrating. "But you're worrying me."

"Well, stop worrying," John replied harshly. "Just need to get my feet under me, is all. Get back in the groove. I'll be all right." He forced a fake smile and saw it register in Sherlock's slight recoil.

Maybe it was bad Sherlock didn't say anything back. But right now he just didn't much care.

By the end of the week, he acknowledged that something had to give. It was either him or the job, and he wasn't sure which.

Wasn't sure if it was the job at all, if the complete truth were told. Because the work didn't seem so bad after that first awful night.

He had one one particularly nagging problem John hadn't given that much thought to until now.

"Tell me how I'm supposed to act around you now," John said on Thursday afternoon.

To his credit Sherlock took the question pretty seriously, instead of saying something meaningless, like, "Oh, just be yourself."

"At a scene? Professional You know the answer to that."

"I guess." John shook his head and flopped down on the sofa. "Everything feels so different now."

"Well, it is different. You don't think I ask myself the same question?"

"You do?"

Sherlock smiled at him, and even from across the room John felt the power of that connection like a hard blow to the chest. "About every ten minutes or so, when I get the urge to do something untoward and highly unprofessional."

"You too?"

"Yes."

Small as such things went, maybe, but it felt pretty damn good even so. And John was ready for something that felt good, in the midst of feeling so uncertain - say it, Johnny, BAD - at work.

At a crime scene with Sherlock, a 7, he felt the pinging of a new panic attack circling him. He coughed abruptly and excused himself, stating he'd be back. He felt Sherlock's eyes boring into his back as he walked away.

He didn't come back.

"You want to talk about what happened?"

John tucked into a slice of toast. "Nope," he said indistinctly, reaching for his orange juice. Swallowing, he added, "Besides, isn't like you don't already know."

Sherlock nodded, reaching across the table and covering John's free hand with his own. "It won't always be like that. It'll get better."

"Yeah. I know." He squeezed Sherlock's fingers and smiled. "But thanks anyway."

"Of course."

Just when John was starting to think he wasn't hungry for bacon and eggs but maybe something a little more - untoward - Sherlock's mobile rang. "Hold that thought," Sherlock said, sitting back in his chair and pressing his phone. "Yes."

Well, maybe eggs weren't so bad after all. Funny how he felt so hungry lately. Making up for lost time, maybe? What the hell, gain a stone back and make his clothes fit again.

"What did you say?"

John looked up sharply. Sherlock's face was thunderous, lips set in a thin line while he listened. Eyes flickering up at John.

"What?" John asked hoarsely.

"And can you tell me just how in the FUCK that happened?" Sherlock nearly snarled into the phone.

His belly felt quick-frozen. Never heard Sherlock use that word before. Not the cursing type, for the most part. "Sherlock?" John croaked out, suddenly frightened.

Sherlock ended the call and slammed the phone down on the table with an angry slap, staring unseeingly at John. He lifted it again, dialing quickly. "Lastrade, it's Sherlock. Yes, I know. I've been told. Get a patrol car here, if you can. Right. Good."

"Patrol car?" John gazed at him, shaking his head slowly. "What's going on? Why do you need the police?"

"John." Sherlock sounded like he was strangling. "Listen. Something's happened."

Without thinking John stood up, so suddenly his thighs wobbled the table. "Well OBVIOUSLY. Something that made you call the police?" His voice sounded tinny in his own ears.

And oh, God DAMN he hated that solicitous worry-look Sherlock got.

"For fuck's sake Sherlock, TELL ME."

Sherlock hesitated, chest only slightly heaving. Anger? Worry?

"They found something. The other day. Wasn't sure who, could have been a copy cat, could have been…" Sherlock wandered, before steeling himself. His piercing eyes bore into John. "Jim Moriarty. He left a message. Confirmed it's him. Stole a very expensive item from a museum. That's not important. What's important is what he left behind." Sherlock paused for a moment. "The message just had one sentence. "Get Watson."

"Oh," John said clearly.

Sherlock blinked. "John -"

He couldn't think, all of a sudden. The words didn't make any sense. "What does that mean?" He knew he sounded stupid, but that was the only thing that came out.

Sherlock's jaw tensed. "God, John, I'm sorry," he said unevenly. "You told me. You tried warning me, didn't you. I hadn't listened."

"Me? Why me?" John shook his head numbly. "Makes no sense Sherlock."

"Makes perfect sense."

John stared at Sherlock, dumbly.

"The pool, John." Sherlock stated, leading. "He said… He would 'burn the heart out of me'."

John shook his head. "What does that mean. Literally? Why me then? Why…" And John realized. And Sherlock closed his eyes.

"Oh."

End Part Two