Disclaimer: nothing mine. The BBC and Conan Doyle share Sherlock & Co. I play with them. And Ennui Enigma makes it readable. :-)
"No! Playing sitting ducks doesn't qualify as a plan, Sherlock!" the doctor growls seconds later.
"Not us. Mycroft has access to the latest robots.
Twins, with natural-like movements...or so he says," the detective points out.
"Oh". John wants to say, 'why didn't you say so before', but he knows that he didn't give Sherlock enough time.
"Mycroft got them for the both of us. That way we could understand whether Moriarty's plan was still operative according to which one Moran aimed for, but I was reluctant to use them," Sherlock explains.
"Why?" John queries.
"Because I didn't mean to show up now, much less explain. Mycroft was supposed to have kidnapped you while the plan unfolded but in the end I didn't trust him to be able to hold you if you didn't want to comply."
John doesn't hear the obvious compliment because his mind is still trying to process the first half of the sentence. "You what?" he roars. Data processing failed.
"I was not to contact you until it was completely safe. It was the only thing Mycroft and I agreed on in years. It was too big of a risk. I was just..." Weak. Stupid. Acting out of instinct, like an animal... Any of these would fit.
"You- wanted – me - safe? I know this should be good but Sherlock - it is laughable. You didn't delete our first case, did you?" The doctor is suddenly suspicious.
"Of course not," Sherlock whispers earnestly. He has been lost so long. If he had deleted anything about John he would have been completely adrift. "I know that you're strong, and not afraid of danger, but I wasn't protecting you. I was protecting myself, John. If I lost you, I'd need reformatting," he confesses. He's not just Sherlock anymore. He's half of something better, greater, a weird sort of John and Sherlock hybrid which is still very much a species that should have his own binomial nomenclature (how do you translate Sherlock in Latin?). Breaking that unit permanently would have broken him too. Surely his friend will understand. John is still his friend, right?
Sherlock has been slipping horribly since he saw his doctor again. Doing what he shouldn't, and saying more than he means to admit. He needs to control himself.
"Oh. Ok. I get it," John replies, still a bit doubtful though not entirely. He'll need time to make his peace with the fact that Sherlock would rather trick and shield him than work with him, but he understands that overwhelming need to protect. Hell, he shares it.
A quick stab of fear slices through Sherlock. What if his last line was too open? If John has read through him entirely, won't his friend hate him?
But John is still talking, "But you are here now and we're closing this case together, aren't we?"
"Yes. Yes," the sleuth replies fervently. He has needed this. For years.
Later that day, they wait in the empty apartment facing theirs. After explosions and sniper tenants, the owner has had an extremely hard time renting it. There's talk of ghosts, though it's not sure whose. John wonders if that's the doing of the Holmes brothers.
Sherlock expects Moran to try a quick assassination, barely stopping to fire, mafia style. Surely the man wouldn't linger for a hit on Baker Street? It's bound to cause a ruckus, after all. John isn't as sure, but he hasn't spent years hunting Moriarty's web, either, so he defers to higher authority. Dimmock's men are lying in ambush in the street, ready to stop Moran after his attempt. Sherlock would have preferred Lestrade, but the DI was one of the targets and hence not safe to contact. Dimmock luckily knew better than argue with resurrected people.
John should have spoken up. Moran is a sniper first and foremost, and this place is just too tempting. He has slacked off – and he's not expecting anyone to be there. That's the only reason they can effectively hide – barely breathing – in the shadows of the empty room.
After the shot, Sherlock pounces on Moran. The following scuffle seems to quickly turn against the detective. Moran is heavier and trained for combat, even if he's shocked. When Sherlock is half-restrained half-strangled (and free from a bullet hole because Moran brought an unwieldy rifle), John (who didn't wait; he's simply not as much of a cat as his friend) calmly steps in, pressing his gun against Moran's nape and says evenly, "Give me an excuse, Colonel." That stops Moran. Sherlock is quick to disengage himself from his hold and call the policemen.
While they're coming, he croaks, "What happened to Moriarty?"
The Colonel takes a look at him and laughs harshly. "Oh. That's sweet. You cheat death, like the devil himself, but now he's haunting you. Why would I need to kill you, uh, genius?"
Sherlock breathes more freely while John growls, "Not on my watch." Not again. The doctor is only too happy when Dimmock is there to remove temptation.
"Are you okay?" he queries the moment they're alone.
"I'm fine, John."
"Seriously?" the doctor insists.
"Yes," Sherlock says with a put-upon sigh.
"You're not downplaying it as usual, are you?" John asks – again. He's behaving ridiculously, maybe, but he does have Sherlock's back, , and the idiot did manage to get himself half-killed first thing upon his return.
"Oh for the love of God! Examine me if it'll help, John!" the detective bursts out. There's a limit to the nagging he can take.
"Sorry," Watson says, a bit sheepish, because he is behaving ridiculously and knows it. "But I'll take you up on that offer."
And he does, because he needs it. He needs to feel Sherlock's heartbeat, to check compulsively that this isn't a dream. That the danger just past hasn't destroyed everything again because John was too damn slow. Sherlock is really back. John has just saved him. The universe has finally righted itself. He forces himself to be quick, not linger.
Sherlock is surprisingly meek. Perhaps he realizes that it helps the doctor. Perhaps it's simply a bit of normalcy they're regaining, and he's enjoying John's care. What with the case distracting them, John's lingering bitterness at being tricked, and his hesitancy to touch after attacking his friend, they've been entirely too distant.
When the doctor is done, Sherlock quips, "Satisfied?"
"For now," John replies, a warning note in his voice. He'll be unsatisfied soon. He'll be unsatisfied for months about Sherlock's health. It will take months to regain the confidence that the detective isn't going to disappear into thin air.
"Let's go home." Sherlock tugs at John' hand like an impatient child. And John goes along, like he's always done. He doesn't point out that Sherlock has no right to say it. A quick burst of happiness – one of many that day – warms the detective. He realizes that just because John went along with the case, it doesn't mean that he's forgiven. But every hint that he's allowed to be back sparks bright fireworks inside him.
They haven't actually seen their doubles yet. Mycroft was probably worried that his brother would tamper with them. His minions installed them in 221B after the legitimate tenant had left. As a result, John is in for a fair bit of trauma. 'Guaranteed twin' wasn't an empty boast. The doctor sees himself sitting in his armchair (later, he'll wonder if Mycroft has required the perfection of even such a detail from the things' programmer), looking utterly numb. Emotions aren't in the package deal, understandably. The problem is that he has seen that face in the mirror for months. And there's something worse. Sherlock...Sherlock lying on the floor, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead. The doctor's eyes dart quickly to his friend (the flesh and blood one) to dispel the nightmare.
Sherlock does not appear as engrossed – or as spooked – by the situation. "Let's bin the rubbish," he prompts and jostles his doppelganger roughly.
"Careful," John utters before he's aware of it. "Perhaps it can be repaired. I'm sure Mycroft would like a brother who does what he's told."
Sherlock snickers, and then they're laughing together until they're breathless. After, the sleuth fires a quick text and in seconds they're relieved of the useless goods. Mycroft's men even repair the broken window as a bonus.
Once they're alone and settled, John asks, "So, what are you in the mood for? You do still eat after cases, don't you?"
Which is a bit silly, because of course he does. What better moment to eat than after a case, when his brain is quiet enough to acknowledge its transport's needs? Sherlock still has to feed himself every now and then; he's human after all. In a way, it's sad that John is unsure about this – he doesn't dare presume that he knows Sherlock anymore.
The detective doesn't bite back, 'Obviously'. Nor does he say how heartbreaking the existence of his friend's uncertainty feels. Instead he just says, "I'm sure Angelo will deliver for you."
John is left wondering if it is an intentional echo of their start. Is it an attempt to press Ctrl-Alt-Del on their relationship from Sherlock's part? Probably not. John can still appreciate the parallel. He hurries to order before Sherlock changes his idea about the menu (or about eating at all).