NOTE: Sorry for the delay! I meant to post this sooner, but am just now getting the chance. For anybody who's curious, the name of this part of the story, Through Galaxies of Apple Trees, comes from the song "Laundry Girl" by Ludo. (It's probably one of my favorite love songs ever. Check it out!)

More thanks due to Morwen and Lani for their beta-ing/idea-ing/proofreading assistance. And, thanks to everybody who's been reading this. I really hope you're enjoying it!

... ... ...

As John made his way back to the time machine, he weighed his options. Yes, at some point he would need to go back to when he was supposed to—what was it Mycroft had said? five years ago?—and tell himself not to talk to Sherlock. And anyway, he'd have to give himself the new coordinates to land at, apparently somewhere on Holmes property.

God: "Mummy" Holmes. Missus Holmes? Was she married? For what little mention Sherlock and Mycroft had made of her, they mentioned a father even less. But then, his own parents had hardly been a topic of discussion between Sherlock and himself. All John could say for certain was that there wasa Mummy Holmes (and even then: he had not observed, had no evidence). But he would just have to trust what he'd said, for now, that the location he'd gotten was safe. Well, surely he ought to test it out first, before just handing the coordinates over? Sherlock had mentioned fifteen years ago. He could try that, and then (then, if he really must) meet with Mycroft again, and try the coordinates again. Two data points were better than one, always. And Sherlock had mentioned fifteen years ago. It was important. It was important enough for Sherlock to mention to a random stranger in a restaurant; it was important enough for him to latch onto a voice and think he recognized it. Well: It could've been anyone. Maybe it wasn't John at all. In fact, its being John seemed quite unbelievably unlikely.

But John knew better than to conclude that it therefore couldn't be true.

So: so he would go back to—Christ, to when Sherlock had been but fifteen years old, or thereabouts. Surely then he wouldn't be in such a state as he was now. Surely he would be happier, less…strung out. When had that started? In university? Sebastian Wilkes had known Sherlock in university—"We hated him," he'd said, and every time John thought it he so desperately wished he'd right then grabbed "Seb" (Sherlock had called him Seb, why? John hoped it was cruel, a hated nickname, not…), smiling, glib Seb, breathed down his neck with a hand drawn back in a fist and held back by a thin layer of the sort of self-control only Captain John Watson could muster, and dared him to try to keep that smug look on his face if he talked shit about Sherlock one more time. John remembered the flickers across his friend's countenance at Wilkes' remarks: oh, he'd thought, every time, feeling a bit like Sherlock—discovering things from the finest of details—but at the same the reverse—for he knew much less than he'd thought about Sherlock, about his apparent obdurateness. But they hadn't known each other so long then; he didn't want to intrude, to ask, and then there was the case, the ASBO, and…

God, but if he would've—was that it, was that even part of what had been eating at Sherlock? And then he had gone and tried to steer him around himself. Put on the hat. Take the gift. Just smile. God.

Well, he could fix it. He could be there for Sherlock, and—maybe he couldn't do much, but he could be there, and know, and maybe somehow Sherlock would know that it was true, what he was always telling himself about everyone else being idiots. Because they were. Only an idiot would do the sort of thing that would drive Sherlock to jump from a bleeding building. From a hospital. From St. Bart's. He'd always been fonder of the place after meeting Sherlock there. Now, he could hardly look at it.

Maybe he could look at it now. Now, Sherlock was still alive. And he would be, John told himself, he would keep being alive—because John would stop that disaster—stop it long before it started.

He would go back fifteen years, and be there for whatever had happened to Sherlock that he remembered so vividly. Well: Sherlock remembered most things vividly, didn't he?—of the things that he remembered. It was the fact that he hadn't deleted it. John wondered if this time around he ought to keep his mouth shut. Would it be better if Sherlock hadn't even recognized his voice at the restaurant?

And then he'd get back to five years ago (ten years later than where he'd be soon), and give himself the right information. He didn't want to get distracted, forget—even if it did mean having to see Mycroft again sooner than he'd have liked to. If he forgot to tell himself not to talk to Sherlock, would some disaster transpire? The world would shift around him and suddenly be awful. John would never meet Sherlock, or Sherlock would hate John. He had to remember to tell himself, and give himself the coordinates. He'd do it soon enough.

John finally reached the house, entering cautiously on the off chance there was someone else who had found their way inside. His hand twitched ever so slightly in the direction of his gun, still tucked in the back of his trousers.

But there was nobody, and there was the time machine, just as he had left it, but with more power now. It was nearly entirely charged—good. John wondered whether the physical effects of traveling would be worse this time around, since he would be going back an entire fifteen years, rather than four. Would he remember the trip this time? Or maybe there was little to remember. Maybe it was instant. It was time travel: was there such a thing as instant or not instant? Better questions for somebody like Andrew. Ah, right: Andrew. Brian. His client. He would also have to find Andrew, sometime. Well, there was plenty of time for it; he could just set the machine to come back a few hours after he'd left and go straight to Brian's and give him the news, whatever it was, and it would make no difference to him if John was gone a day or a week or a month in the meantime. (Or longer? However long it took to save Sherlock. He'd do it.)

He was able to dial the year back to 1993 and still the engage button remained lit; there was no change to it when he tapped along an adjacent keypad and entered the coordinates. Where had they come from?

What date should he choose? He could leave it at the same date—Sherlock had said fifteen years before, which, come to think of it, was really inconveniently vague. But then would Sherlock find it odd, hearing John on the same date fifteen years apart? Did Sherlock himself even remember the date?

Bollocks. Well—he'd just have to choose something and work from there. So far, that strategy had worked for him. Okay: earlier. A bit earlier. A different month, a different day. Just to be safe. April: that would be fine. And…seventeen. April seventeenth. That was quite distinct from the sixth of May. And maybe he could find someplace to sleep once he was there; now that he was here, stationary, away from Sherlock, John realized how tired he was. It only made sense—he hadn't gotten any sleep last night, if "last night" was the sort of term he could use anymore. Perhaps he had gotten some, though—he had no idea how long he'd been unconscious in this empty house after traveling here. Maybe it had been a decent amount of rest. Still, he'd be needing somewhere to sleep soon enough. He only had a little money on him—damn. He should have asked Mycroft for—no. No, he shouldn't have. Of all the people he'd want to borrow money or favors from, Mycroft was at the bottom of the list, especially now that he knew John had a time machine. John would find a way.

He wrapped the cord he'd plugged into the wall back into the box with the other cables. All right: all appeared to be in order. At least now he knew what he was getting himself into—not that it seemed to help. He felt just as unprepared as last time. He should've charged his laptop—well—lot of good it would do him in 1993. Still, if he would need to use it to charge the machine—ah—but it had plenty of juice; last time, when it was only at half, he could still go back fifty years, if his theory about the engage button was correct.

John clambered up into the machine, checking once more over his person to make sure he had everything, and was in a fit enough state to travel. He took a few deep breaths, observed his surroundings carefully. He'd shut off the lights—good. Everything was just about as it had been before he appeared, he supposed. He half expected to see Sherlock peering through the door, having waited for him around the corner and followed him out of the restaurant—but there was nothing. Well, of course not. This Sherlock didn't know him; to this Sherlock, he was just a stranger in a restaurant who happened to have a sort of familiar voice. That was good; if he could keep this up, he wouldn't have to worry about causing some sort of drastic spiral out of the course of events he knew—he'd still meet Sherlock, he'd still blog about him, they'd still grin and covertly elbow one another at crime scenes. He could just change the details: no Moriarty to make Sherlock look like a fake. Perfect.

Decisively, John smacked the engage button.

... ... ...

As before, John drifted to consciousness feeling immensely drained. This time, night air chilled what of his skin was exposed. And, bloody hell: the headache. Jesus Christ, like he'd drunk himself half to death and woke up to a bright sunrise—except that it was dark, which was, perhaps, a blessing. He fished his torch from his jacket pocket and with a shaking hand raised it to observe the area around him. Grassy: a garden? But above him, some type of roof. A gazebo. His machine had landed under a gazebo. Somebody had been expecting him—perhaps Mycroft had arranged for it. But no: this was before Mycroft knew. Maybe the gazebo had always been here and Mycroft had picked these coordinates knowing that.

John stumbled from the machine. No use bothering with pinching his skin: He was well aware he was dehydrated, perhaps nearly dangerously so. He hoped there was a fountain or something around here. That was the sort of thing people put in posh gardens like this, wasn't it? No, but that wouldn't be sanitary to drink from. Would Mycroft or Sherlock be the one to have taken after Mummy Holmes? Would the fountain be pristine or filled with pig intestines pinned around the edges? It could be perfectly clean. But…not worth the risk. And anyway, maybe there was no fountain.

He groaned and leaned back against the frame of the machine, sliding back to the ground. He shouldn't sleep now, but god, it was tempting. He kicked his legs out to stretch them, and one leg thudded against something. It had a little give—not stone or wood—but— John shone his light onto it. Oh: a case of water bottles. How convenient.

Somebody had definitely been expecting him.

And taped to the case, a set of numbers. John dug into his pocket and compared: the same set copied onto his paper.

Unlike his copy, this wasn't his own handwriting; it wasn't even Mycroft's small, neat hand. It wasn't, John was relieved to find, Sherlock's. He couldn't place it at all. One of Mycroft's assistants, maybe. But again: Mycroft didn't know yet. Ah, perhaps he'd been lying. Or, Mycroft or one of his assistants could've taken the machine while John was gone, any time while John was or will be away from it, and put this here. It could be anything. Best to leave the paper. He'd take down a new copy of the coordinates so that he could give the other one to himself later, and still have a copy, just in case.

But first: water. Unlikely it was anything malicious—perhaps he'd left it here for himself. That seemed quite likely. And the bottles were all sealed. Fantastic; he could just take a bit of a break here, drink a little water, have a bit of a nap, and be off to find Sherlock in the morning. Or perhaps the afternoon—he would be in school, wouldn't he?

It was such a strange notion—Sherlock, sitting down when somebody else told him to. John was certainly not envious of whoever had been assigned the task of the direction of Sherlock's education. Surely stubbornness was a timeless Sherlock Holmes trait.

John drifted off amongst an array of emptied water bottles, trying to imagine how a parent of Sherlock Holmes would apologize to the poor sod of a teacher who'd found six types of mold growing along the windowsill that most definitely hadn't been there the week before, or couldn't get Sherlock to stop talking long enough to study his maths, or had to console half the class because Sherlock had pointed out whose parents were getting divorced, who was poorer than he liked to let on, whose big sister was an alcoholic…

... ... ...

He awoke, blessedly, to nothing. Rather: Nothing had changed but that it was now bright, and John could see that the gazebo was part of what appeared to be a highly secluded garden. Massive but well-trimmed shrubberies lined a path around the gazebo; the path led out to a trail lined by thick trees, narrow enough that John almost felt the need to tuck his shoulders in as he walked it, straightening his back out, feeling much better than he had the night before. He felt like he was in a maze—but after a stretch the path led out to a wider swathe of land, a house—well, mansion—distant on the other end. Best to avoid that, then. That would be where Mummy Holmes and her violets were, and John was not terribly keen on the idea of finding out whether the threats were true. Perhaps he should have somehow cleaned up the water bottles—carried them out here with him? No use—he was probably being monitored anyway.

John consulted his phone for the time: 11:23 AM. Ah, rather later than he'd thought. Well, he'd doubtless been in need of rest, and it was comforting to find he hadn't been bothered over the course of the night. It was a lovely, well-hidden place.

So: it was just about lunchtime, then. God, and he was starving. Shame whoever left him the water hadn't also thought to place a packet of crisps or something to tide him over.

Travel to the road was easy enough; John debated hailing a cab but with a glance through his wallet figured he might be better off just walking. Soon enough he'd have to either find some way of acquiring money—it wasn't as if he could use his card—or else he'd have to nip back to 2012 to pick up some cash. He grinned a little at the thought, "nip back to 2012"—he wouldn't be so surprised if he woke up shortly and realized he'd just been asleep this entire time. Or maybe he'd just gone mental, and there was no waking up. Ah, well. He'd avoid going back, for now, if he could. God—this was so much better. Perhaps because it was the springtime, now, and he'd left from the winter, everything here seemed in color compared to the grey of before.

Wait—of course—he could hardly use his own money now. It was 1993, for god's sake. Shit, he thought, definitely should've left myself a bag of crisps. He wondered briefly if the money he'd spent on his hot and sour in 2008 had been too recent—what would the owner do, getting notes from three and four years later? Ah well—too late now. Let Mycroft handle it. Surely he could manage something like that, if he could field Sherlock breaking into a high security military base.

It would be so much handier if he had Sherlock's eating habits. Sherlock with a time machine: Would he eat at all? He would always be on the move, always busy, his mind always occupied. He'd never think to eat until the finally passed out. (He'd pass out in a Chinese restaurant, and John would wander in and find him, and, not knowing him, treat him and take him to hospital, to St. Bart's, and rouse him, and they'd still meet there. It would be funny, wouldn't it—but then Sherlock would wake up and get bored and scramble back to his time machine, and disappear. At least he wouldn't die that way. He could travel 'round Moriarty in circles and circles and circles, and dizzy him, and laugh about it.)

Perhaps he would have to travel to a later time to eat, unless he found some way of acquiring more temporally appropriate currency soon. God, that was inconvenient. Well, he could hold out for a bit longer, and look for Sherlock first. John hadn't the foggiest idea of where to start searching for him; before, he had sort of just…been there.

Schools: that's where he should look. God, no, that would be…that would be a bit strange, wouldn't it? To just pace around a school. And anyway, it wasn't that Sherlock had seen him—just that he'd heard him. Much as John hated to admit it, Mycroft was probably right about minimizing his contact with Sherlock. John could see and talk to Mycroft because Mycroft was Mycroft, and would probably take great joy in keeping the little secret of the time machine, to hold over John's head whenever he liked. Mycroft was going to implicate himself in John's life whether John liked it or not—whether because of the time machine, or Sherlock, or both. But he had to make sure things went right with Sherlock—that was much more important. If Mycroft got pissed off at him and never spoke to him again, John might count that as a significant advantage of his trip. If he nudged the careful balance of keeping Sherlock's life just where it was…

"You think you're pretty damn clever, don't you?" The words weren't directed at John; they came from quite far off. Around the corner of—oh. John backed up against the wall of the post office, and tilted his head forward just enough to take a peek around the corner. Some adolescent, grinning cruelly, his stance more a swagger than anything—John felt the pit of his stomach drop. It couldn't be Sherlock…but…the problem was, it could. School nearby—not so terribly distant from the Holmes residence. Pretty damn clever. These three things, pieced together…

"What is it that you do over lunch, Holmes? You walk home and cry to your mummy? That's where you're headed, isn't it?" A different voice. "She must make her precious little boy some sandwiches at home after he has his little cry. You never eat at school."

"Correct, for once, Hedley—I don't eat at school," god—god, it was—the voice was nowhere near as deep, of course; scratchier and, if it were possible, more pompous, but there was no way this wasn't Sherlock—"it's hardly necessary to bother with a lunch when I've had a perfectly adequate dinner the night before. Not that you would know quite what constitutes an adequate dinner, would you?"

John tilted his head back against the wall. Shit, Sherlock, he thought, you can't do that, god, that's not how you… His train of thought was interrupted by a muffled smack and the sound of clattering against pavement.

Sherlock continued—though, it sounded like, with effort: "How sad for your mum, that your father has such an awful gambling habit. And he's not terribly good at it, is he?"

Another crack, this one louder. John heaved a deep breath in and out, shaking against the effort of dashing around the corner to make sure Sherlock was—well, of course he wasn't okay, god, of course he was the one being thrown to the ground, or against the wall, or…he peeked around, just briefly. Christ, there was Sherlock, a younger, smaller, twiggier Sherlock, in a heap on the sidewalk. Thankfully, though, no blood—not that John could see in his brief glimpse, anyway.

"There's nuthin' dignified in getting back up, Holmes," said the first voice.

"Yeah, there you go, just keep right down there," the other added, and it sounded as if he might be dealing a few kicks to Sherlock.

"You oughtta just take the rest of the day off."

"Maybe just don't come back 'til next year. Or at all. Don't worry, you won't be missed."

"Ah," he could hear Sherlock wheeze, "you're concerned, and rightly so, that I'll be tipping the grading scale against your favor." John winced: of course Sherlock not knowing when to shut up wouldn't have been a recent phenomenon. He'd always been like this, hadn't he? And he was rather a bit of an arse, nothing new there. Still John found himself wondering if there might be a way to teach these two to know better than to beat Sherlock up, corner him and threaten him and…he really didn't have any friends, did he? John drew in a breath through his teeth. It was arseholes like these who kept piling these ideas of worthlessness and unwantedness onto Sherlock—Sherlock, who pretended to shrug them off, but clearly couldn't entirely…

"You keep your mouth shut, or Missus Stephenson's finding out you broke into her classroom last weekend."

"Don't think we didn't know."

Silence.

"All right, there's a good lad. Come on, Hedley. Still plenty of time for a bite."

They spat back at Sherlock as they left, and John was suddenly steely, determined and waiting and he would… As they sniggered with one another, John noticed the sound getting louder—perfect. They were coming this way. He'd just wait, casually, stalk after them…he couldn't…he couldn't check on Sherlock first, no. Sherlock would be fine, wouldn't he? He would turn out fine. This was as much as John could help, and he was hoping that he himself would be able to refrain from physical violence.

The two kids rounded the corner, all clad in their posh uniforms, hardly paying John any mind as they continued on their way. John trailed after them for just a bit, and finally, they seemed to notice. One nudged the other and they turned around. "Afternoon, chaps," John said, though it came out more of a growl.

"What do you want, old man?"

Ah, yes: that was how they would read him. Mild John, unassuming John. A nobody, some clueless bloke nosing into something that was none of his business. Oh, but this was his business. "You know, it's not a terribly good idea to beat people up—"

"Yeah? I bet you got beat up in school, didn't you?"

"—Especially people cleverer than you are."

"That so? And how do you know he's clever? He's just an arse who pretends to know things about people."

"It's 'cause it's the only way anyone'll talk to him," the other added. "If he insults a bloke and he's gotta teach 'im a lesson. Like we just did."

"Ah," John said, though he could barely restrain the roar behind it. "You know, I'll bet I could teach you boys a lesson myself."

One looked him over. "Pshaw. I doubt it."

"No, I don't look it, do I? I bet Sherlock doesn't look it either."

"Ah, you two related, or something? How sweet, Sherlock's daddy, coming to the rescue."

John titled his head down, brows casting a shadow over his eyes. His body shifted beneath him, back straighter, shoulders squarer, and he appeared to grow a couple of inches, suddenly breathing down their necks. He growled out a soft, "Oh, much worse than that."

One of the boys took a step back, clearly apprehensive, but the other crossed his arms. "Yeah? Like what?"

John took in one shuddering breath, nostrils flaring, and leaned forward, looming over the boy, who leaned in, grinning, expecting a whisper, challenging John to do more. So he did: he roared. "Piss the fuck off, you worthless prat, and don't you touch him again!" It echoed down the street: Captain John Watson. Then, he did drop his voice. "I can find you, and I will, if I have to. I'll be keeping an eye on you." No, not following them, of course; but if they showed up again later… "I said I could teach you a lesson, and I can. I've beaten men twice your size to the ground." A bit of an exaggeration, perhaps—but true enough. Certainly he could.

Now both boys were quivering a little. "O-okay," one said, the one in the back. "C'mon, Nathan."

"You can't back that up," the other—Nathan—muttered, though he seemed doubtful.

"I think I'm rather above clocking a child to prove a point." But his hands tensed into fists, and he took half a step back. It was an effective form of intimidation: the boy in back grabbed Nathan's sleeve and tugged at it, and they fled. John stalked back to the corner, hoping to peer around and look over Sherlock again, if from a distance, make sure nothing had been broken—but he wasn't there. He seemed to have left something behind, though, something small… John approached it and snatched it up. A wallet—and a note, obviously quickly scribbled onto the back of some chemistry papers.

Pick-pocketed Nathan when he shoved me. He doesn't need it, nor do I. Take what you want. Don't worry, the poor one is the other prat.

Thank you.

SH

John glanced back over his shoulder and noticed a small figure receding in the distance. "Sherlock," he mouthed. He was at once thankful Sherlock had left, or he'd have had an impossible time of not speaking to him, but regretted being unable to verify his—well, his health, for one, and—god, he wasn't miserable, was he? Was this a daily thing? John trailed behind him, wondering why he'd left—shyness, maybe. Was Sherlock shy? No, surely not. This was different, though; how easy was it for him to thank someone? The note was more than enough. And it was probably healthy to shy away from a bloke you'd never met but who somehow knew your full name. John removed the money from the wallet—considerably more than a sixth form kid should rightfully have on him, anyway, he thought, and probably plenty more after that for next week's allowance, right?—and placed it in his own, leaving the rest of the wallet where it was. Nathan would just think he'd dropped it while he was busy throwing Sherlock around—

This was how it was, wasn't it? For Sherlock, all the time. Unable to keep his mouth shut, the smartarse, and not without consequence, but without a friend to back him up. John could've been that: he was right here in town, right now. Probably gearing up for some rugby. If he could pay himself a visit, what'd he say? "Hey, enjoy that shoulder while it lasts. Oh, by the way, if you ever see some pretentious pain-in-the-arse posh kid, hair like this, eyes like this, being harassed by some other pretentious pain-in-the-arse posh kids, step in, won't you? In fact, why don't you just patrol around this area over here watching out for him? No, it'll be worth it. Even worth missing your date tonight, yeah, I swear. She's gonna lose interest in a couple weeks anyway. Not your fault, she was just trying to make somebody else jealous. It's even worth your date after that, John, and another after that. You'll see when he looks at you. You won't think so for a good long while, but in the John Watson exchange rate, one of those stupid, 'Oh-do-you-really-think-I'm-that-brilliant?' Sherlock Holmes smiles is actually worth an entire date. Unless she's really h—no, no, even then, I think, even then. I swear."

And he'd ask himself something stupid, like, "You gay, mate?"

And he'd say, "You don't get it, you don't get it, it's not about that, it's Sherlock, you'll know when you see."

But he wouldn't see, would he? Not yet. John pocketed his wallet and focused his gaze in Sherlock's direction, waiting a few more moments before setting off after him at a distance.

No, John wouldn't see for a good long while what it was about Sherlock that made him worth it, not until John went intoAfghanistanand came out a different man. Priorities changed, people had changed, and John found himself disconnected. Now, here, in 1993, he'd had no reason to think about anything other than rugby and women: he was talented with both, and they were all he needed. Not that his schooling had taken a back seat—he had just been particularly successful at juggling it and those two hobbies. He'd had a number of nice, successful relationships; he was good boyfriend. AfterAfghanistan, he felt like an old man, with his limp and nightmares and loneliness. He wondered if he would ask his dates if they snored in the hopes that they did. When he dated Sarah, and she'd so gracefully dealt with the Chinese circus, Sherlock's eccentricity—even, all things considered, the kidnapping—that he'd swelled with hope. But she had never spent day in and day out with the bite of fear for her life ever haunting the edge of her mind and somehow getting used to it, somehow learning to love it; there was no rush, for her.

"If you would've known all that was going to happen," she'd asked once, "would you still do it? You know—go after that gang?"

"What do you mean? I had to. They were killing people. The police weren't getting anywhere with it."

"You could've just let Sherlock do it."

John had rolled his eyes. "Yeah, good idea. As if I'd just let him go out and almost die about six times every night without someone watching his back."

"He did it before, didn't he?"

John looked down at his knuckles, and then out the window. "I suppose he did."

"You could skip out on helping him sometimes, I'm sure. For instance, this Tuesday evening?" she smiled, raising her eyebrows.

"Tuesday he's going to…no, I can't, I'm sorry." He couldn't explain to her that the second day he ever knew Sherlock he (probably) saved his life, killing a man in the process (but not a very nice man), couldn't convey that Sherlock having made it this far was probably pure luck from what he'd seen, couldn't convey that chasing criminals down alleys made him feel a particular brand of alive that dinner and a movie never could, not any more. When he was younger, there was plenty of chasing to be had with both rugby and women, but that was such a long time ago that trying to place himself back in his shoes and imagine that that was his life made him nauseous, now. Sherlock knew that; Sherlock didn't make the mistake of trying to treat him like nothing would've changed from before his time in the war—maybe because Sherlock hadn't known him then, more likely because Sherlock simply understood that the man all of John's acquaintances saw when they looked at him—the man Mike Stamford saw, the man any of his college friends saw—was not the same man John was. Most actively avoided bringing the war up, fearing, perhaps, triggering violent flashbacks in John's mind. It was a reasonable and considerate thing, but John felt his hackles raise when their eyes started darting, searching for a way to avoid mentioning his time in Afghanistan in favor of something safer, more pleasant.

"You're an army doctor," Sherlock had said, the second time they met. So simply. Like that. He knew. He understood. Present tense: you are an army doctor. Because John was, he still was, he still was an army doctor, still this day. It wasn't, as others seemed to think, something he shed the moment he was flown back. He was a doctor, of course, they all decided. Back from the war, so a doctor like he was before. "Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." Sherlock didn't tiptoe. Sherlock never tiptoed. "Bit of trouble, too, I bet."

"AfghanistanorIraq?" were Sherlock's first words to John. He never tiptoed.

And so it hadn't taken John long to realize that he would, of course, give up his dates for the sake of making sure his flatmate didn't die. John wondered, sometimes, if he himself was responsible for an increase in risky behavior on Sherlock's part. Or had Sherlock really been so careless even without a soldier—and a doctor—keeping an eye on him? Either way, Sherlock would act like that now (then) whether John came or not, knowing that John knew that he could've been there, if he'd just stop it with that useless job, with those useless dates. It followed easily that he would have to be prepared to, however grudgingly, drop his plans whenever Sherlock's life hung in the balance.

What had taken more time was realizing that it wasn't just keeping Sherlock from dying that was worth missing those dates, but seeing Sherlock happy. It had been a rare enough thing before, he surmised from others, to see a smile on Sherlock's face at any time that there wasn't a serial killer on the loose. (And John learned that what they were describing was not, in fact, Sherlock's genuine smile; it was a smirk. They hadn't seen the real thing, so they couldn't know.) One afternoon he and Sherlock had returned to the flat to wash blood from their hands—sheep's blood, in fact. The murderer had tried to use it to cover up a trail, and it worked just well enough to stump Scotland Yard and grant Sherlock two manic hours of running around, babbling about how the technique had been employed poorly in the past, and all the ways this killer had amended those errors. He and John had cornered the man; in the end, John physically wrestled him to the ground and pinned the wrist of the hand in which the man was gripping his gun, twisting it to prevent him from pulling the trigger. Sherlock leaned down to pull John's gun from his waistband and held it to the murderer's temple until he dropped his own weapon.

And there they were giggling over the sink, and John listened to Sherlock describe the finer details of one of his deductions.

"Brilliant," John had said, grinning. "That's brilliant, Sherlock."

Sherlock flashed a, "You really think so?" smile, and John shook his head a little, wiping his hands on his trousers (oh, they were already ruined anyway). Sherlock had looked at his own hands, and then at John's, and finally reached over and grabbed a towel. His smile faded, and John felt his gut sink. "You have a date in less than half an hour."

"Oh," he'd said. He'd nearly forgotten.

"Unfortunate. I was hoping you could assist me with a brief experiment in removing blood from clothing—since half the work is done for us already," he motioned to their sullied outfits. "It's only sheep's blood, but the results are likely widely applicable to…ah, but it will have to wait, I suppose. Well, no; then the blood will be too dry for the conditions I meant to test…"

"You know, Monday is a crap day for a date. I don't know what I was thinking when I suggested it. I'll see if she wouldn't prefer Wednesday." And Sherlock had beamed. "My good jumper's all ruined now anyway."

"None of your jumpers are good jumpers, John. Honestly."

"Oh, you have an opinion on what I wear now, too, do you?"

"Of course I do." John hadn't really wanted to ask about that one. He texted his girlfriend and, predictably, it was only a matter of weeks before she'd had enough of it. Well, it was fine. He had slept with her a couple of times. She was a very quiet sleeper.

So it wasn't that he didn't want to go on dates any more. But Sherlock usually interfered anyway, somehow, eventually. Maybe that was why it had been so easy with Mary—but no, there had been more than that to it; that really was something different.

Sherlock was, apparently, actually going home, John discovered as he followed him. Still farther off, a car pulled into the drive. Mycroft: even barely past twenty he was on his way to wherever-he-was, wasn't he? John was getting closer, now, could maybe creep around some shrubberies and get within earshot of where Sherlock had paused near the vehicle. He had to be careful: if Sherlock he turned around right now, he'd see John. This isn't as bad as it looks, John told himself. He wasn't—no, of course not. Anyway, Sherlock would've done this sort of thing to him, given the opportunity.

"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, as Mycroft climbed out. John choked down laughter as quietly as he could. God: that haircut. "Why are you here?" He paused and stepped forward more aggressively, pointing at Mycroft and then to the street behind him. "That was you, wasn't it?"

"I'm afraid I'm not sure what you're referring to, Sherlock. I am merely here for—"

"Damn it, Mycroft, I'm not stupid; you were having me f—" but he paused, and John recognized the tilt of Sherlock's head: deduction. It tipped back: realization. He was probably muttering, "Oh," but from here, John couldn't make out Sherlock's face. His stance returned to its usual cool superiority. "Well. Obviously not. My mistake." Oh, thought John, you thought Mycroft hired me to follow you, didn't you? And now you've figured it out.

"What are you going on about, brother?" Mycroft was clearly agitated by Sherlock's rapid shift in mood.

"Nothing of importance to you, rest assured." John could hear the smirk in Sherlock's voice, and couldn't hold back a smirk himself. Watching Sherlock brush Mycroft off was perhaps one of the most fantastic spectator sports in the world. Sherlock's smugness, Mycroft's obvious displeasure as the tide turned against him…it was like a scene in a movie he'd never get tired of. There were variations, though—here, maybe, Sherlock and Mycroft were not quite as well-practiced at this game as they were in 2010. They seemed more brothers here than they ever had when John had seen them before, though the differences were subtle: Sherlock still leaned in slightly, waiting almost earnestly for Mycroft's responses, or for him to notice something about him, to say something about him; Mycroft, for his part, was more expressive—perhaps he still believed he had a fighting chance of getting through to Sherlock.

"I find that difficult to believe. What happened to you, Sherlock?"

"I'm fine," he snapped. "Now, I have some experiments waiting upstairs, if you don't mind." His voice very much indicated "whether you mind or not."

"I do, in fact." Sherlock snorted. "Mummy will throw a fit, seeing you in this state. What happened?"

"Oh, don't act as if you don't know. This can't be shocking news every time."

Mycroft frowned. "This is avoidable, you know," he motioned to Sherlock, his ruffled uniform and bloody lip and bruises that were beginning to manifest themselves on his arms and face and probably under clothing, too. There it was again, John thought, that flicker of pleading on Mycroft's face, so hopeful that his brother would see his point of view.

"Grand. I hadn't been aware." Sherlock shifted his weight to his left foot, and then to his right, before settling back into a more balanced stance. Restless? Maybe, but the tone of his voice said otherwise: energized.

"Sherlock, this simply won't do—"

"Sorry, Mycroft, can't hear you, must've gotten my eardrum burst, what a shame," Sherlock answered, making his way toward the door with something like a skip in his step. John covered his smile with one hand, as if he were afraid its brightness might project into the drive and reveal his position, and ducked further behind the shrubbery when Sherlock shot a quick glance over his shoulder at the road on which he'd come home, on which John had followed him. He was smiling, too—a secretive smile, a giggling-at-crime-scenes smile, and John was obliged to join in. Sherlock turned back to the house and fished a key out of his pocket.

"Sherlock!" Mycroft barked, and this time Sherlock paused, directing his gaze at his scuffed shoes. But silence followed, and after Sherlock stood waiting for further comment for several long moments, he continued on his way. Mycroft's posture loosened, and he leaned against the car, burying his face into one hand. "Sherlock," he said again, more quietly, but Sherlock was gone.

Mycroft had said: "I worry about him. Constantly." Maybe it was true. Maybe Mycroft had worried about Sherlock constantly since the day Sherlock came into the world. Then why had he so foolishly, so thoroughly, made himself a part of Sherlock's destruction? If he could see everything else coming a mile away, why not that? The Holmes brothers: so susceptible to Moriarty's particular brand of cunning. Sherlock hadn't seen it, either.

Sherlock peeked back out the door. "Mycroft, would you like to see what a human head looks like after being submerged in water for forty-eight hours?"

Mycroft's eyes darted up, suddenly wide. "A head—a—Sherlock—"

"Oh, calm down. It was an unclaimed body. Stevens at the morgue told me they were going to cremate it the next day anyway. I helped him find—well, it doesn't matter; anyway, he was the one who got it for me."

Mycroft's eyes widened further. "Mummy is going to hear about this, Sherlock! You do not need to be associating with such—rabble," he sputtered, "—and—dead bodies—you're barely even—what will people think?"

"Mummy thinks it's fine," Sherlock shot back with a self-righteous sneer before his expression melted to a smirk. "She even helped me decide on what experiments to do." He seemed proud of this. Mummy loves me best, said his satisfied grin, although John was quite certain that Mycroft would disagree with the idea that Mummy's approval of experimenting on dead bodies was a sign of undying affection. "Well? Coming?"

Mycroft's nose wrinkled as he grimaced. "I am not interested—"

Sherlock harrumphed and the door slammed shut again, and John covered his mouth to hide a chortle. They weren't normal brothers, anyway.

Well: perhaps he ought to get a bite to eat with his newly found wealth while he could still use it. Then, he'd have a few words with Mycroft in 2003.