"Turn around and walk back the way you came."

He shouldn't have. He really shouldn't have, but he did. Should have kept going, should have run up to the roof-top and completely disregarded something that Sherlock had asked, for once, instead of remaining pliant to every order. Maybe then he would have seen the "magic" behind how he did it all - the trick. He should have run into the building and exposed it all before things had a chance to be entirely destroyed.

"Okay, look up. I'm on the rooftop."

"Yes, you were. And it was so unfair to do that, Sherlock, to stand before me like that. Jesus, you were such a-"

It had truly been one of the most horrifying experiences that he had ever had to endure - the whole scenario teetering like a board on a ball with the outcome entirely dependent on what John would say or do. The fragility was maddening, and he had to negotiate with Sherlock to sway him from whatever choice he had made, and that had never worked. Sherlock was a wild-card. He was the definition of reckless abandon, and he might have valued John, but he had never listened. It had seemed so critical that John say precisely the right thing, the right confessions, and he...didn't, because Sherlock jumped and painted himself with red and it was morbidly wrong.

That was the first time John Watson felt utterly powerless in every way possible.

"Everything they said about me...I invented Moriarty."

"Except not really, because you're still-" He snapped his mouth shut, because repetition wouldn't change anything.

He still can't say it, or admit it, or...whatever- not even two weeks after the "great fucking reveal" as he'd come to call it. Sherlock had appeared before him in shadows and smokescreen like he had in the new nightmares - the nightmares that replaced the Afghan desert with a black-blood concrete, and John couldn't recognize Sherlock's face without the blood pooling at at his curls and striking over his eyes and nose.

"This phone call, um...it's my note. That's what people do, don't they? Leave a note."

And the anxiety surged through his gut, because that was the moment when he realized what was going on -when Sherlock told him in subtle ways that his reputation was worth more than his life. That single, haunted line had been the prologue of every night for the past eight months. Like this night, as he lies in bed and struggles to balance a malevolent fury with an all-consuming relief.

In the most bizarre of ways, words could never explain how happy John was to be furious aboutit.

John sighed audibly as a buzzing noise abruptly pierced the silence and cast a blue glow through the black room. Reaching for his phone, he held it up and winced around the light of another of Sherlock's 11:00 P.M. text messages.

"At some point, we will have to address this. I know you struggle to be objective, but this is irrational even for you. I deserve the chance to explain. -SH"

Yeah, fuck you.

"You deserve much much more than that. -JW" John typed angrily, thumb hovering over the "Send" button as he considered if this was really what he wanted to say. Or do, really, considering he wasn't sure he wanted to open a gateway of communication between he and Sherlock at all. Licking his lips, John sighed and sent the text message, head falling back against the headboard of the bed as he tossed the phone in his lap.

He and Sherlock had started exchanging short, tense text messages one week. One week after the disaster in Mycroft's office, and six days after he met with Lestrade and demanded an explanation that Lestrade wasn't entitled or willing to give.

That was the frustrating part of it all.

According to Lestrade, Mycroft had put him under aggressively strict orders to remain silent about Sherlock's "death" with the promise of serious and irreversible consequences if any one were to reveal anything to John. But really, John didn't care about the "how's" or the "when's" or the "where's"; all that mattered to him was why. Why Sherlock had done this, and why he was kept in the dark about it. Lestrade wouldn't tell him why, opting instead to imply to John that he needed to ask Sherlock himself, and John knew that Lestrade wasn't following orders from Mycroft with that one.

He just wanted John to talk to Sherlock; and until he did, John would never know. It was an impasse, or a lose-lose situation - a barrier especially created around John with Sherlock controlling the strings from a distance. It was just the way he liked it and had always kept their relationship.

And with another harsh "BZZZZZZZZZZ" accenting the silence, John grabbed the phone.

"Perhaps. I'm not going to entertain you by believing that you're indifferent, John. This won't go away no matter how ignorant you stay. You want to know, and I can tell you what you want to know. -SH"

And with that, John shoved the phone in his pocket and cursed audibly. In one flurry of movement, he tore the sheets off of his legs and sprang out of bed, ignoring his coat on the back of his chair as he walked out of the room. His phone buzzed again as he made his way to the front door, but he ignored it when he read the words "Mycroft Holmes" on the screen. With the jingle of his keys, John locked the door to his flat and stepped into the cold atmosphere of London, trying anything to freeze his mind of the acidic confliction.

His thoughts had been so contradictory; all bouncing off of each other and sparking embers over his brain and perspective. Everything was colliding - blind fury grinding against devastating relief, feelings of deeply-rooted betrayal butting heads with feelings of poorly-justified forgiveness, and a defensive desire to hold an indifferent facade against a desire to know everything, and know it now.

Walking through the still-born streets, John's breath came in short puffs of fog as his phone buzzed again in his pocket. Slowing his pace, he grappled through and read the messages. One previous text from Mycroft, and one new text from Sherlock.

"New case. Could be dangerous.-SH"

Piss off.

"John, I understand you're angry, but I really must ask that you overlook that anger for one night. I'm afraid Sherlock has found himself another case to pass the time, though I'm not entirely sure it's harmless. Please contact me. -MH"

And John felt both the pulse of adrenaline and fear as he made the connection between the two messages.

When given too much time and boredom, Sherlock had a tendency to become dangerously self-destructive. Every one knew this, it hovered like an ill-omened thunder-storm in everyone's peripheral. But John not only knew Sherlock's neuroticy, he lived it.

Sherlock was frustrated, that much John could tell from the tone of his texts. He knew that tone, had memorized it through the turbulent waters of Sherlock's black moods and "Danger Nights." A frustrated Sherlock was usually desperate to find ways to satiate himself, and there was no consideration to his life or well-being in the process of finding that satisfaction. Nothing was off-limits, and Mycroft had only ever contacted John about it when Sherlock had truly pushed the limit to the point of shattering.

Contrary to Sherlock's attitude, Mycroft loved Sherlock more than he would ever willingly admit.

"He's not with you? -JW" John typed, pausing in the middle of the street.

"I haven't seen him in five days. He's using an alternate phone. Call me. -MH"

Against his better judgment, John began typing the first few digits of Mycroft's number, but paused when the next step was establishing a connection with Mycroft - a connection that implied to Mycroft that he still cared far too much about Sherlock.

His thoughts were interrupted, however, as his phone's ringtone blared and vibrated in his hand.

Lestrade.

"John?" Came the inquiry.

"Greg." John affirmed, voice devoid of any kind of approval.

"There isn't any time to explain, so just listen."

"...Alright." John replied, a disting feeling uneasiness paralyzing his anger.

"You know Sherlock, I don't have to explain to you how he...gets." Lestrade explained apologetically, and John felt himself nod. "He's been under tight surveillance as of late. Necessary, of course, but you know it means nothing to him. He's been frustrated as well, never a healthy combination for him."

"Is he in danger?" John asked, interrupting the flow.

"I'm not sure." Lestrade replied, hesitancy clear through the phone. "He's been taken with a string of murders that happened on the left side of town two days ago. It's all suspected to be illegal drug trade. Cartel, drug lords - the whole nasty business. I told him to leave it alone but I doubt he's listened, and he's ten steps ahead of the Yard on this one."

"What do you want me to do?" John asked around the lump in his throat.

"Has he been speaking to you?"

"Occasionally."

"You need to find out where he is, mate. Mycroft Holmes can't find him and he won't respond to me. This is a dangerous business, John. Drug Lords aren't independent, they have networks and systems of people. I know things aren't...all that great right now, but this is too big for Sherlock."

"He has a phone. Can you trace the call?" John asked, voice slightly softening.

"Already tried, but the phone is one of many phones he had customized while in the States and Russia. There's no telling what he's done to it, but we can't capture a signal."

"Okay. Alright, I'll be in contact." John replied, storing his curiosity about the States and Russia for later.

"Listen, John. If you find out where he is, don't go after him. Whatever he tells you, let me know as soon as possible and I'll dispatch a team to intercept."

"Alright." Came John's reply as he hung up and turned back the way he came.

"Where are you? -JW" He typed quickly, fingers fumbling as he sent the message to Sherlock.

When ten minutes passed, John cursed audibly.

When twenty minutes passed yielding nothing, he composed another message.

"Let me know where you are. I'll talk. -JW"

When thirty minutes passed without a response, John decided to do something he knew Sherlock had always hated.

He called.

Dialing the number, John waited out the rings and listened to his heart beat pounding in his ears, drumming in tandem with the hope that Sherlock would just answer the fucking phone. When it sent him to voicemail, he tried again.

After the fourth time, John left a voicemail.

"I don't know where you are, but I...I need to know, Sherlock. I'll talk to you if you tell me where you are. It's-" He stopped then, and the white-space tempted him to continue. "It's important. I'll talk about anything, just...just call me when you get this. Please."

"Damn it." John cursed, looking around for a place to possibly hail a cab if it got to that point. Getting to the left side of town would be quite a drive, but the prospect of sleep had gone to hell the second Sherlock had failed to answer his texts for the first time in the history of their entire camaraderie.

Bearing down into the wind, John's adrenaline surged when his phone buzzed again ten minutes later revealing Sherlock's number across the screen.

"118kingsleyst -SH" Came the message, and John knew immediately that something was wrong when he caught the absence of the capital letters and spaces. As ridiculous as it seemed, Sherlock was painfully pedantic and would never speak or write in a language that was anything short of flawless. The text messages had always been explicitly accurate with the English language, which was just another testament to the "All Things Elegant" philosophy of Sherlock's world.

Which meant this was a bit not good. Bad, actually, and John's senses ignited in a way they hadn't in eight months.

Hailing a late-night cab, John threw himself in the car and blurted the address to the driver who only sent a look of concern at the urgency in John's voice.

"Would you mind going a little faster?" John asked impatiently, looking around his shoulder out of habit as he glanced at his phone for the fourteenth time. "It's an emergency."

(Later)

"Here is fine." John commented quickly as he chucked the fare sloppily at the cab, slammed the door and ran briskly down the (clearly) seedy homes. The driver sent him a disbelieving look before shifting into gear and driving off.

"Shit." John commented as he pulled out his phone. Typing Lestrade's number, John sent the address to him and turned a corner to locate the building that Sherlock had sent. When the location came into view, John stopped from a distance and observed the metal "118" plaque that was nailed to the door of a large, decrepit home.

The area was sickeningly quiet, and there wasn't a soul in sight - a neighborhood left for nothing but steady decay.

It was an ideal location for illegal drug trade.

In controlled fear, John made his way to the back yard by entering at a sixty-foot radius around the house. Moving along the sides, John stopped at the first window he came to and peered in, but hissed in frustration at the presence of a black tarp covering the window from the inside.

And then the phone buzzed, and John tore it out of his coat.

"Please tell me you didn't go. -GL" Came the text, and John turned the phone off and shoved it back into his pocket.

With his back planted firmly against the wall of the house, John stopped to calculate the details of his next move. It was only a single-story house, so there was no need to consider the possibility of Sherlock on any additional floor or basement. But glancing down the length of the house, John noted the presence of black tarp taped over the inside of every window, so visibility was set at a firm 0%.

"Dammit." John whispered, adjusting his weight to the other side of his leg. Craning his neck to other end of the house, John caught sight of a window three down from him that had a hole shattered in the left corner. Crouching, he walked lowly and quietly through the grass, stopping in front of the window.

It was then that he heard the tiny sounds of a few small, muffled voices coming from the inside. Pressing his ear to the hole in the window, John could make out the sound of a single individual speaking.

"-impressed, really I am. The great "Sherlock Holmes", back from the fucking dead. Your older brother is the British government, right? I'm sure I would receive a beautiful ransom in exchange for your sneaky little life."

John waited on halted breath for that deep baritone to respond. His hand rested unconsciously over his gun, debating how and when he should-

"But still, you've made quite a name for yourself in the criminal underworld; and not a respected name, I'm afraid. I know three dozen people who would pay large sums to see your blood spattered against that wall."

"Don't waste your time with threats, Kinlan. It rarely works on me." Sherlock replied, and John found himself struggling not to scream at Sherlock for his serious disregard to his own life.

"I don't do threats, Sherlock Holmes." Came the reply, and John flinched as the sickening sound of metal on bone filled the room. "I do that."

John heard an impish hiss escape from Sherlock, indicating that he had been hit several times. It was then that a gust of wind picked up, lifting the black tarp through the hole momentarily - just long enough for John to see stacks of unmarked boxes through the house, and Sherlock with his wrists tied and sitting in a chair. Blood ran in small trails down the side of his face from a blunt abrasion on his forehead, and his head was bent to one side with curls plastered to his neck.

And then John's fear was replaced with a throb of anger.

With his face leaning closer to the window, John carefully blew against the tarp through the hole and watched Sherlock lift his head wearily.

"I will kill you, you know. Quite literally. There will be no 'coming back' this time." Came the response of the Lord, and John watched as he moved the barrel of his gun softly around Sherlock's face and down his neck. The gun ran in caressing trails over Sherlock's collarbone as Sherlock looked straight into Kinlan's eyes with that look, and John found himself shaking his head.

"Don't do it, Sherlock." He thought. "Don't even think about i-"

Sherlock huffed in frustration.

"Must you be so boring?" He asked boredly, and then the barrel of Kinlan's gun was shoved open-mouthed against the curls of Sherlock's forehead, and John didn't know who he wanted to shoot more.

"Shut the hell up, Sherlock!" John barked inwardly, and found that he had pulled his own gun out of his pocket.

"3..." Came Kinlan's voice, and then John felt himself explode into fire as the click of Kinlan's gun echoed through the room. Without a second thought, John positioned his own gun in the hole of the window and concentrated desperately on perfecting the angle. It would be difficult, but if he could just-

"2..."

Steadying himself, he closed one eye, held his breath and concentrated - just like Afghanistan, just like the first day he met Sherlock.

Just like breathing.

And before Kinlan could even consider placing his finger over the trigger, John shot him through the window, zero visibility, and ducked as glass shards exploded over his clothes and hair.

And like the breaking of the sound barrier, John slammed the heel of his gun against the remaining glass in the window, not bothering to wince as the glass tore etchy cuts through his arms. He thanked the gods for once that he was small in stature, because he slid through the now-shattered window and bolted forward.

Sighing in utter relief, John made eye-contact with a badly-bruised but alive Sherlock who observed John in some kind of shocked fascination.

"John." He whispered, and John swore it could have been a prayer if Sherlock had a religious bone in his body. "John, you-"

"I know." John replied, bolting around Sherlock and severing the wire that tied his wrists together with a large shard of glass. Kinlan's body was face-down and pooling blood, but John stepped over him and crouched in front of Sherlock to cut the wire binding his ankle.

"Sherlock, why the hell did you provoke hi-" But before he could finish, a painfully loud crack sounded through the room as the window one down from where John had entered exploded in a flurry of glass. Both he and Sherlock hit the floor as a string of bullets ricocheted off the walls sending shrapnel flying through the air.

"The hit-man." Sherlock called over the gun shots, and John searched desperately for a door.

And then he was yanked upwards as Sherlock grasped his wrist, and propelled them towards the front door. Glancing backwards, John caught a glimpse of an elbow breaking the remaining glass of the window, and the titanium-glint of his gun resting in a pool of Kinlan's blood.

Stopping abruptly, John yanked out of Sherlocks grasp and ran back to the living room, only to have Sherlock cast him a look of utterly disbelieving fury.

"The gun!" John yelled back at him, swiping the gun off the floor as Sherlock yanked him back and pulled him through the living room. And like the breaking of a dam, Sherlock shoved the front door open, and they were running break-neck through the yard and down the street.

"Lestrade!" Sherlock yelled back to him.

"Already texted him! He should be here in a few-" And then a bullet hit the side of a house directly in front of Sherlock, halting him abruptly as John slammed into his back. On impact, the gun flew out of John's hand and skid across the sidewalk, spinning to a stop about ten feet in front of them. Lurching forward, John made his way to grab the gun again but was jerked backwards.

"John!" Sherlock barked angrily, pupils shrinking, and suddenly John felt the completely inappropriate desire -no, need- to ignore him, to refrain from bending to his will, because the gun was the only thing that would bring them out of this alive. John had learned in the most painful way that he couldn't protect Sherlock on his own - not at St. Bart's while on the ground and looking upwards with nothing to use but his useless words. On the rooftop, Sherlock had commanded him to do something and he had fucking listened, and Sherlock had ended up "dead" because of it.

...which is why John peeled out of Sherlock's grasp again and swiped the gun off of the concrete, ducking as another bullet shot directly over his head and into the house. John tracked the bullet's direction and cursed as his eyes landed on a stocky man running towards them with one gun in his hand, and one in a holster.

"Sherlock!" John yelled half on instinct and half on adrenaline.

In one spinning movement, Sherlock grasped his wrist and they were running again, this time between the alley of two individual houses. A shot ricocheted off of the concrete at John's feet, igniting a small burst of sparks. Sherlock glanced backwards with eyes wide and icey as a bullet whizzed past the side of his face. The hitman must have been outrageously fast, because the sound of pounding footsteps caught up with them and John made a split-secoond decision.

With one careful movement, John craned his arm backwards, calculated and pin-pointed at a ridiculously sloppy angle, and muttered a quick prayer as he shot blindly behind him.

Breath catching in his throat, John caught sight of the man crumpling to the ground.

And then Sherlock jerked him to the side of the house where they both landed with backs against the wall.

"He's dead." John explained breathlessly as he glanced back at the hitman, heart beating wildly in his chest. His gun clattered to the ground at his feet as the blood on it's heel stained wet and red across his fingers. "We're fine."

"We're fine." Sherlock repeated, voice deep and chest heaving as he struggled to gather his own breath.

"We're..." John began as his eyes landed on Sherlock's, and the detective could only mirror his own gaze. "We're fine." John affirmed, a smile breaking through the manic adrenaline.

"Yes, John."

And suddenly, in the most inappropriate of times and ways, he and Sherlock were both shaking with laughter. A minute or a year passed -John wasn't sure- as the sound of childish giggling dotted the otherwise intense atmosphere. Small tears formed in the corners of John eyes as he clenched his stomach and allowed himself to collapse against the wall, Sherlock's baritone laughter accentuated under his own.

"Jesus Christ, we're alive." John muttered in disbelief, and looked up to find Sherlock peering down at him with a bizarre, less-amused expression.

"John...why-"

But before he could finish, the shrill sound of police sirens pierced the air, and John stood up and brushed himself off.

"Lestrade." He commented, and whatever Sherlock had been planning to say was underscored as he walked back through the alley and into the street. John followed after and caught sight of the siren lights blinking rapidly in front of 118 Kingsley. Sherlock was already fifteen steps ahead, and John found himself slowing as the realization hit him like ice-water.

He was following again.

He had followed, and he had loved every second of it.

"Coming?" Came a voice, and John glanced upwards to find Sherlock staring blankly back at him. Glancing to the side, John sighed audibly and squinted around the now-rising sun. Opening his mouth, he allowed it to snap shut when he realized that what he wanted to say wasn't what he wanted to say, because it would take a sodding year to say it all. And at some point, John would say it all, and it was going to be fire and brimstone and warfare when he did.

"Okay, Sherlock." He commented, and Sherlock's mouth turned up in a crooked smirk.

"Good." He remarked as he moved forward, fingers moving swiftly over his phone, and John stopped.

"I'm angry, Sherlock." He called from behind, and Sherlock slowed gracefully to a stop. "And I will be. For a very, very long time. I'm not-"

"I'm not-"

"Jesus Christ, you two!" Lestrade barked as he slammed the car door and jogged forward, stopping in front of them. Both Sherlock and John turned towards him. "Can't bloody listen, either of you! I should arrest you both for failure to comply with the law."

"Don't make threats, Lestrade. You're not good at it." Sherlock commented boredly as he typed into his phone, most likely responding to Mycroft's distressed inquiries. "I solved the case, and John killed one of London's most aggressive drug lords. You're welcome." He replied smoothly as he tucked the phone inside his wool coat and strode off.