A.N. oh you guys, THANK you so much for your kind words.

Chapter Six

John woke up late. Somehow he had moved to lie on his stomach, clutching Sherlock's pillow like a life saver. The dream was still etched onto his eye lids and he was unable to shake off the feeling that something bad had happened. Cursing, John pushed himself up and fished his phone from Sherlock's nightstand. Ten new messages; so everything was alright.

The shower managed to wake him up and when he stood in the kitchen, only a towel around his hips, he had all but forgotten the nightmare. Sipping his tea he read through the messages.

Almost there. Sleep tight.

Lake frozen over, you might actually enjoy it here, snow and such.

John smiled, remembering their little snow fight. He would get his revenge once Sherlock was back.

Found the cabin. The man is gone, was warned, presumably. Finally something interesting.

John sighed and walked over to the window, looking out. It was snowing lightly again, so no sun today either. How could Sherlock actually like the fact that things got more difficult. Oh right, that was how Sherlock worked.

Have unearthed proof and sent it away with the driver. Alone now, waiting.

He had sent the driver away? John couldn't quite ignore the anxious feeling that settled in his stomach. Being by himself in the middle of nowhere in the house of a man who had managed to burn a fortune just for the sake of it and who had been warned of Sherlock's coming definitely counted as stupid.

Tired now. Should have listened to you. Will see what he has in the fridge.

Nothing edible. Sorry.

John

I like typing your name, John.

John giggled. Apparently Sherlock wasn't too bored yet.

I think he's coming. Don't text or call me, I will hide. DON'T WORRY!

Now this was anything but comforting, but he would not call or text him if he would endanger Sherlock.

Rather nice chap, actually. Thinking about letting him go.

John frowned. That seemed somewhat out of character. Considering the fact that he had texted him again, John decided that the call and text ban had been lifted and dialled Sherlock's number. His tea cup fell from his hand when an unfamiliar voice answered. "Hello?"

"Who are you?" Cold fear gripped him and he moved back to sit down, praying that the events that played out in his mind were not real. "I'm trying to reach Sherlock Holmes," he added, hoping he did not sound too shocked.

"Yes, yes, he is here but he is currently unable to speak to you."

"What did you do to him?" He should have known that something would happen. Sherlock had a talent for getting himself into trouble and he should have insisted to come along. And he should have read the last message first, because he had wasted precious time since that last message had been written.

"I didn't do anything to him," the voice on the other side said, sounding somewhat surprised.

"Why can't I speak to him then?"

"He's asleep."

"What?" Well, that was anti climactic. "You don't mean that metaphorically, do you?"

The voice on the other end laughed. "No, I don't. He is asleep. He told me to talk to you in case you called."

John stared at the wall, eyes wide. What in the world?

"Okay, listen. I'm sorry about all of this. I promise that I did not do anything to him. He was here when I came home, and he disarmed me before I could shoot him." John did not want to hear that there was a weapon involved. His hands were sweating. "I was surprised, that's all. I was out hunting, so I was not planning on shooting anyone. Good thing his reflexes were faster than mine. Well, anyway, he told me why he is here and we had dinner and now he is asleep. Said it were his doctor's orders."

John wanted to ask the man to wake Sherlock up, but something in his voice made John believe him. And Sherlock certainly would not just fall into the trap of trusting a bank robber, no matter how trouble prone he was.

"He said to tell you not to worry."

"Well, that is very thoughtful of him. But, from what he told me, he can't let you go." What in the world was going on?

"I know, but we worked out an alibi."

"Oh God, Sherlock." He had not meant to say that out loud. Mycroft and Lestrade would kill Sherlock if he actually went through with the plan.

The man chuckled. "He's been rather helpful."

"Undoubtedly. Why does he trust you? He was sent to arrest you and now he decides to switch over to your side? That's typical."

The voice was quiet for a while. "Actually, I have no idea. After disarming me he sat me down and started telling me about his plan; and that plan is really very decent."

"But you stole all that money and burned it."

"I wonder how he knew that."

"He just does, he's brilliant like that, but that doesn't answer my question."

"Yes, I did, but it was for a bet, nothing more. Nobody got hurt…"

"Except for the traumas you caused the people you threatened while you were doing it? And the money that you stole, that was a shitload of money, and you cost the tax payers quite a lot because of the ongoing investigation and now even more because they sent someone to Canada to find you!" while he could just as well be home with me, he added silently.

"Well, as far as I understood, I was not responsible for the cost of the investigation of the last few years, considering that your friend here knew about it all this time without giving me away."

"That will be all," he could hear Sherlock's voice.

"What?" Honest surprise from the man.

John heard a muffled sound and then a sharp metallic click and a curse. A little breathless, but nevertheless smug, Sherlock's voice filled John's ears: "Lestrade, does that suffice as proof?"

And that was when John understood that his shiny new phone had some special features that he had known nothing about. And what was worse than being left in the dark about this was the fact that Lestrade, or, even worse, someone else from the Yard had listened to their conversation the night before. John was breathless and mad, more so than was reasonable, and, unable to fight down the sudden urge, he threw the phone against the wall. He knew he was being immature, and in the end it all made sense; the fact that he had been supposed to stay put, the fact that Lestrade had not been in touch with him, the fact that Mycroft had supplied unlimited credit….

The phone was not only expensive, but also robust enough to survive the collision with the wall. John stared at it. For a moment he hated Sherlock for all his brilliancy and ability to manipulate. He should have known that even he was not safe from being drawn into the line of fire when Sherlock was on a case, and being emotionally involved, even more so than normally, made things very hard for him. John wondered whether Sherlock had even considered that this might be an embarrassing situation for him and then, which caused his hands to clench into fists, whether he had planned the whole episode, knowing fully well that John would do exactly what he expected him to do.

Sherlock sitting in the bathroom, lost in thoughts; he should have known. Why didn't Sherlock trust him with things like that? He had promised to fill him in, he had promised to tell him next time. He could have just as well played his part if he had known about it before Sherlock had gone away. But sitting there, glaring at the phone didn't help much at all. He got up and picked up the phone. One text message received.

Biting his lower lip he opened it.

sorry!

John was breathing hard. He knew that if Sherlock had been present in the living room right now he would have yelled at him like no one had ever yelled at him before and he would have tried to hurt Sherlock on purpose, just to make up for being used, exposed and out of control like this. When he tasted his own blood he decided that it was a good thing that Sherlock was not here and that he could not yell at him and hurt him, because he would regret hurting him forever. His friend must have known that it was not the best way of going about it in terms of their relationship, but for the case it had obviously been the perfect solution. In this moment, John lost his love for logical thinking.

He squeezed his eyes shut and counted to fifty, forcing his breathing to slow. He hated that he got so worked up over this, that it affected him so much and that it brought out a side in him that he barely even knew himself. Then, when he felt calm enough to formulate coherent thoughts, he called Sherlock's number. The ringing seemed endless and he knew that Sherlock tried to avoid talking to him, otherwise he would have picked up long ago. Eventually Sherlock's voice mail message filled the silence and he had to close his eyes, finding it suddenly very hard to stay mad at him. For a few seconds he just listened to the silence, unable to say anything, but eventually he drew a deep breath: "Bloody idiot."

It didn't make him feel better and now he was afraid that Sherlock might not get in touch with him until he returned home. So against his better judgment, John dialled the number again. After the third ring, Sherlock picked up. "John."

"Lestrade, if you're listening to this, get the fuck away from the headphones. And don't you dare record this. I can't believe you made a fool of me like this." The last part was not solely meant for the DI.

"John, he's gone."

"Sherlock, why the bloody hell would you do something like this?"

"John, I know you think that he's been listening the entire time, but that is not the case. Last night was just between us, I promise."

John felt his anger leave him, but he still felt betrayed. "Why didn't you tell me?"

Sherlock took his time answering, and John could practically see him shift from one foot to the other. "He is gifted."

"What?"

"Carl, he is gifted. He knows when you tell a lie, he can tell by the tone of your voice."

John closed his eyes, fighting a headache that started to sneak up on him. Why in the world did Sherlock always have a good explanation? No matter what happened, Sherlock would always manage to talk himself out of the trouble he got himself into, most of the time anyway. "I couldn't tell you because he would have known."

John fought hard to stay objective. "But how did he not know that you lied?"

The smile was evident in Sherlock's voice, as if he was proud that John asked the right question and gave him the opportunity to explain the problem. "I only told him the truth. I told him I was sent to take him down, I told him how I had come here and that I was supposed to get a confession out of him. Then I told him that I was tired and that I had not eaten in days, so he made me dinner."

"And you trusted him? I mean, he could have poisoned you!"

"He had caught a rabbit and prepared it while I watched. We should go hunting some time, by the way, it tasted much better than the Sainsbury meat. But there was no way he could have poisoned it while I was here and then I let him eat first. I told you not to worry."

John wanted to bang his head against the wall in an attempt to get rid of the headache and to make Sherlock see that this was not how things worked.

"After dinner I told him about you." He sounded nervous, just a tiny bit, and John wondered what he had confessed to the man to get him on his side. The truth, obviously, and John knew he would probably go and visit the man in jail if only to make him tell what Sherlock had said about him. "And then I texted you while he watched. He didn't realise I knew he watched, but you can't really tell by the tone of a text message if there is a lie, and then you did exactly what I wanted you to do."

"There, Sherlock, this is exactly the problem. You calculated my action. That is not okay, not when I'm not in on the joke." He felt desperate to get his point across and he hated being upset with Sherlock who had only done what he did best.

"I'm sorry, John."

"I know, but it still doesn't make things okay. How can I trust you when I always have to worry about you using me for the greater good, or whatever you think I might be helpful with."

"But it worked out, didn't it? And I didn't let Lestrade listen to us, not yesterday, and not now."

"That is not the point."

"John, you are being unreasonable."

There was no way he would be able to explain himself, because Sherlock simply would not understand, but he needed him to understand. What he was feeling was irrational and emotional and personal, all things that were pretty much foreign concepts to Sherlock.

"Come home, okay? We have to talk about this, but I need a bit of time to think this over."

"Not us, though. You don't have to think us over?" John was very tempted to say that yes, that was indeed what he needed to think about, but in the end he knew that there was no way that this would make him feel less drawn to Sherlock. It also did not mean that he trusted him any less, despite his words. What he did know was that it frustrated him endlessly and that things would be much easier if Sherlock was here with him so he could make him understand. He just wanted him home.

"Sherlock."

"John, please. What do you mean? Don't be angry with me."

"Well, I am angry with you, and I'm angry with Lestrade, and with Mycroft, and everyone who was involved in this thing while I knew nothing about it."

"But you knew everything about it, except for the last bit. I told you I would tell you everything you needed to know."

"Just come home."

"You will be there when I get home?" John hated that his stomach clenched almost painfully at the underlying fear in Sherlock's voice, and he hated it even more that he could hear himself smile as he answered him. "Oh bloody hell, of course I will be here."

An exhale, quietly, as if Sherlock was trying to hide it from John. "I'm sorry I upset you, John, but I did eat something," he added, obviously trying to lighten the mood, and John wanted nothing more than to hug him close and tell him off for being silly.

"I've got to go."

"Okay."

"Idiot."

"My John."

John hung up before he had time to respond to the sudden emotional notion, and for a second he cursed himself for pushing the button too fast. But he knew that calling back now would seem silly so he put the phone away and walked upstairs to get dressed.