Chapter Seventeen

"They didn't see you shoot." Sherlock said as he signed the papers. He spoke quietly, but said it as if he was completely sure. "They saw you do something, apparently you were holding up your hands, but they didn't see you shoot. They think the guy who bled all over you was the one who did it." He shook his head as if he was actually feeling sorry for their stupidity. "I wonder why Anderson still has his job."

John took the clipboard from him and gave him a single look of disapproval. He waited for Sherlock to say something to contradict him, but he stayed silent. After John had signed his release paper and the document that he would take over Sherlock as his patient, he put down the pen and looked up at Sherlock.

"Ready to go?"

A short nod. "After you."

Sherlock was freezing. Lestrade had brought him a sweater, one that John had never seen before in his life and was sure that Lestrade had only done that so he would be forced to wear it, but in the end it didn't suffice at all. John had forced him to at least wear his scarf, but other than that he couldn't really help him.

He was shivering, and even though the cab driver turned up the heat, he didn't quite warm up. John saw how annoyed Sherlock was by his physical reaction, staring out of the window, watching a transformed city rushing by. It must have been snowing for a long time, because everything was white and there were very few people on the streets. It was funny how London seemed to die out when it was snowing.

When Sherlock started to shiver visibly John couldn't take it anymore. He moved closer and pushed his arm between Sherlock's back and the seat, rubbing up and down. Sherlock turned around to him, surprised. When John reached a certain point near his kidneys, he flinched, hissing in pain.

"Shit, I'm sorry!"

"No, it's nothing. Keep going please."

But John couldn't keep doing something that caused him visible discomfort. He guessed that it must have been where Moriarty had hit him last night. He wanted to kill that man.

"John." Sherlock caught his eye. "It's okay, don't worry about it."

Instead of trying to warm Sherlock up by rubbing his back, John decided on a simpler, but much more intimate gesture. He took his hands into his, gently rubbing warmth into them.

Sherlock looked away, a movement that John was not used to at all. If anything, he would sharply turn towards him, but never away. "Is that okay?" he asked, unsure now. Considering how cold Sherlock's fingers were, and how warm his own, it was definitely the right thing to do.

"Yes." It was neither here nor there, but it was an affirmation, at least.

When they reached Baker Street, they found that they both had no cash to actually pay the driver. Sherlock hopped out and disappeared through the door, only to emerge with Mrs Hudson in his trail a few seconds later.

While Sherlock paid the driver, Mrs Hudson came forward and hugged John tightly. "I saw it on the news. I'm so glad that you boys are okay! You cannot believe how worried I was, especially about you, John." There it was again, apparently people only called him by his first name when they were truly worried about him. "With the fever and all, and then you just disappeared and your girl came by and was looking for you and you were not there and then the police and…" She threw her hands into the air. "Sherlock, why are you not wearing a coat?"

"Don't worry about me, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock said, sounding positively happy. "I'm quite alright." John smiled and ushered her into the house.

"I will make you boys some tea," she announced. "Don't you dare take any phone calls until then." The warning was clearly meant for Sherlock, but he was already hopping up the stairs. She gave John a look that told him that she had no idea what was going on but that someone needed to put some sense into his friend. "You go upstairs, love. You look tired. Get some rest, alright?"

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson." No flowers again; only a happy Sherlock to present her with.

When he came upstairs he could not quite repress a laugh. Sherlock had gotten rid of the jumper and pulled over his dressing gown and was just about to let himself fall backwards onto the couch when John reminded him of a certain wound that needed a bit of care. "If you open it again it'll be a mess. Come on, a few days should be manageable, even for you."

So Sherlock sat down on the couch instead. "I wouldn't mind so much."

John was irritated by that. He was repeatedly hinting at the fact that he didn't care much about being injured, and apparently the pain it caused him did not distract him at all. He couldn't formulate the question to ask for a reason.

He let himself fall on his chair, exhaling audibly. "It's good to be back."

"I wasn't sure you would find me." Out of nowhere, Sherlock decided to finally talk about what had happened. "I did not want to involve you but I knew I would need you. I could not risk for you to not know."

John wanted to say something, but he was not sure if Sherlock would keep talking if he interrupted him now.

"I thought you might check the skull first. I was stupid enough to think you would just happen to pick it up and talk to it if I was not here." He chuckled. "And then you sent me the text, and I knew I might be able to send someone, so it wouldn't be obvious that it came from me. Good choice of restaurant, by the way, I wouldn't have known how to point you towards Darwin if you had asked to meet somewhere else. Well, and then I thought that you might just be too much of a Londoner to care about strange people doing and saying strange things. I mean, you live with me." A small smile, and John wanted to protest, but Sherlock looked at him in a way that told him that if he was honest with himself, there was no denying that Sherlock definitely ran under the category: strange. "When did you know?"

"Why don't you tell me?" A challenge. John wanted to test how far Sherlock could go.

That actually made Sherlock grin widely. He leaned back and pulled up his legs, carefully lying down. "If you had found the scrap under the skull, you wouldn't have asked me out for dinner, you would have come to the library."

"Okay." John was not sure if that qualified as deduction.

"There were several aspects involved. You wanted to get Mrs Hudson flowers, because you thought she had cleaned up your mess." His head turned and he grinned at him sideways.

"Why did you do it?" John inquired. Despite Moriarty and everything else, this was the one question he had wanted to ask him all along.

"Because it was my fault. I surprised you. You were nervous all day and I should have known that even a soldier sometimes jumps when he is being surprised. It was quite amusing, though."

"Thanks."

"And you obviously did not understand why I was there, so you were safe for the moment."

"Why were you downstairs?"

"Well, you figured that out all by yourself already, didn't you? You were in my room."

As if that would answer any questions. John sighed, watching him calmly. "You were sleeping on the couch in case someone would come and try to … do something?"

"Wrong."

"Sherlock!"

"I did not sleep. I was on the couch, yes. I had your gun. Oh, don't look at me like that! I put it back before you woke up. I hoped Moriarty would show up so I could finally end it."

John frowned. "You're an idiot, Sherlock." He meant it.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to answer to that, catching John's drift. John secretly congratulated him for shutting him up, if only for a second. He did not worry about him not talking anymore.

"I wanted to make sure you're safe." He was looking at the ceiling now, and John wondered if he had ever seen him shy away from anything before.

Just when things threatened to get awkward, Mrs Hudson came up, carrying a tray with tea and biscuits. "Here you go. Ah, Sherlock, I see you're back to your old habits."

He glowered up at her, but Mrs Hudson was one of three people who did not care much for his dismissive looks. Mycroft was another, and, unsurprisingly, Moriarty was the third. He even took pleasure in Sherlock's glare. John himself had, thankfully, never been on the receiving end of it, and he was not sure that he could take it. Sherlock constantly looked at him, scrutinising, thinking, deducing; but he never stared him down.

"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," John said, smiling at her apologetically. "That's very kind of you."

"You're most welcome," she answered, pointedly in John's direction. "I will be downstairs, in case you need me."

"Thank you."

When her footsteps had disappeared John turned back to Sherlock. "You know very well that you would have not been able to shoot him. And see, the thing is, he would have."

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbows, eying the tea and then his violin case.

John anticipated that Sherlock would take out his violin and play some random tunes to ignore the fact that John was right, and he did open the case, but only to further open the little compartment. He looked at John, surprised.

"What?"

Sherlock slowly closed the case again and dropped back down again, grunting, apparently in discomfort.

"Does it hurt?"

"Stop asking me that, of course it does."

"I could give you something."

"No, thank you. It's ... interesting." And, with a glance at John who had already opened his mouth to speak. "And don't call me idiot."

John let his mouth fall shut.

The next few minutes were spent in silence. John was sipping his tea, trying to think of nothing in particular, and Sherlock left his tea untouched, his mind working furiously.

Then John remembered something that he had momentarily forgotten. "Sherlock, how do you know I was in your room?"

He could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts screeching to a halt. He lifted his left arm and pointed at his dressing gown with his right.

"No," John shook his head, leaning forward. "That is not how you know. You went to your room to get the dressing gown and saw that things were not as you left them. Lestrade was in your room to get clothes, so he could have rearranged something. You couldn't possibly know it was me."

"I couldn't just leave you alone." Sherlock looked at him, his face open and honest. "I was worried about you. I knew Moriarty only used you to get to me, and I knew it was a risk to come, but I needed to know you were alright."

"Thank you." John leaned back, thinking that he had been far from okay when he had seen the shadow across the street. "But why didn't you tell me?" he tried to not sound overly accusing.

"Because last time you knew anything about him you ended up with a bomb strapped to your body."

He obviously tried to stay calm, but he could not hide the bitterness in his voice.

"Sherlock, we almost died!"

"No, John, youalmost died." He was speaking to the ceiling again and John had the strangest urge to move to the couch and hug him.

"I'm sorry that I involved you."

"Don't be." John meant it. He understood where Sherlock was coming from but he obviously did not see the bigger picture.

He wanted to explain to Sherlock that he was not responsible for his actions. It had always been John's choice to come along. He could have said no, Sherlock had never pressured him into following him to a case. He had always had the opportunity to stay at home, or leave as soon as things became dangerous. Yes, he always had been given a choice. Only when he had come along had Sherlock expected him to work with him; or he had sent him away to collect information, had sent him to ask questions or to get supplies, but it had always been in moments when Sherlock had made sure that John would be out of immediate danger.

Once things got ugly, he always had had the opportunity to leave. Of course he never did. He loved the rush of adrenaline. He loved the cold London air in his face as they raced along deserted alleyways, and he loved the companionship that he had gotten so used to. He just got Sherlock, and Sherlock got him. There was no need for elaborate explanations. In times of need they worked as one. And he had developed a need to be around Sherlock in dangerous situations. He had grown incredibly protective, he just never had thought about it until now.

"I will take a shower now," Sherlock announced, wincing as he stood up. "If you feel like sleeping, go ahead. I'm sure Lestrade will refrain from asking for any advice in the next few days, so don't worry about that." He left the room and John had to repress the urge to ask if he needed anything. When he heard the bathroom door close, he leaned back again, trying to relax. Sleeping sounded very nice indeed, but he needed to check Sherlock's wound when he returned from the shower. He was sure that he would need a new dressing. He stood up and placed his cup on the kitchen table. His back hurt, and he was sure that within a few hours he would be sore from all the stealth crawling around in the library and the general tension of the last days. Well, he could just as well wait on the couch as long as Sherlock was in the shower.

John picked up Sherlock's cooling tea and took a sip. The couch was still warm from where he had sat, he noticed. So he had managed to warm up again, even without tea. With a content sigh he closed his eyes.

A.N. Thanks for the feedback :) And sorry about the uncertainty of how much there is. It's finished and it has 25 chapters, I'm just not uploading them all at once because I'm proofreading them before uploading :p But the end will be marked as such :) So there are still a few chapters to come.