Hours later, the four of them were at John's cottage. Lestrade sat in John's favorite chair with his foot up on the ottoman. Mycroft sat in an armchair, savoring a drink, while John sagged into the couch as Sherlock perched on the other end. John felt both more exhausted and more exhilarated than he had in years.

The table was strewn with the remains of take-out Chinese and, even if this hadn't been what Mycroft and Sherlock had had in mind when the day started, this was the closest thing to perfection John had known since losing Sherlock at St. Barts.

Well, other than the exhaustion. They had decided not to go to the hospital when they'd left the bank (managing to avoid the press as they went). John had said he had the supplies he needed to stitch up Greg's leg and all of them were eager to avoid attracting any unnecessary attention—especially considering how much they had gotten already. They had considered stopping at the hospital lot to get John's car, but there had been too much press waiting outside.

No, the cottage was ideal. It hadn't been discovered by reporters yet, either. John had ushered everyone in and gone for his medkit, assuring Greg that he was definitely steady enough to stitch him up. ("Really, the blurry vision is barely even an issue, Greg.")

Barnes and Donovan had shown up half an hour later to take statements—intimidated enough by Mycroft's ID that they hadn't required them all to come to the station. It was awkward, seeing Donovan again, but she was relatively subdued "You did what you had to, I suppose," she said to Sherlock.

"Isn't that all any of us can do, Donovan?"

She just shrugged, looking at John making tea in the kitchen and Greg, sprawled exhausted on the couch. "They could have been killed, you know."

"Yes, I know," he said quietly.

"That's not exactly unusual for any of us, is it, Sally?" John asked, handing her a mug. "The important thing is that we watch out for each other. Even if it is from a distance. You might not like him, but Sherlock has always had my back—and he's got Greg's, too."

The officers didn't stay long after taking their statements, which was a relief. It had been uncomfortably awkward. Now that his "true identity" was out (making John feel like a superhero sidekick), the local police force he had chatted and joked with as they'd come into his A&E were suddenly awkward, staring at their shoes, not meeting his eye. They'd heard stories, obviously, about Sherlock Holmes and John Watson and didn't quite know how to tie that to the quiet Dr. Hamish they already knew.

At some point, Anthea had arranged for John's car to be picked up, and the driver had brought back an assortment of Chinese food. Anthea, Michaels, and whoever else was still here kept to the kitchen while John and his guests sprawled in the living room.

Well, John and Greg sprawled. Between the injuries and the emotional stress, they were both exhausted, while Sherlock just sat and tried not to stare. Or so John supposed, because there was rather a lot of staring, but it was followed by frequent glances away.

John was slightly surprised that Mycroft stuck around—didn't the man have a country to run, or something? And yet, every time John had looked, he was eating Chinese food with perfect chopstick skills, just watching his brother. He supposed that he had missed him, too.

Really, there was a lot of looking going on, as if none of them could quite believe that they were all together, that the ordeal of the last two years was over. Sherlock had explained, earlier, about Moriarty's ultimatum and why he had jumped. He told them why he'd been gone so long, and apologized for causing them pain.

John still wasn't sure how he felt about that. He was beyond glad that his friend was not actually dead, but so much of his life had changed in the last 25-months … he wasn't quite sure how this was going to … well, it was going to change everything. He knew that. He just wasn't sure exactly how.

One thing was certain—Sherlock Holmes would never move to Madthwaite-on-the-Sea. Knowing him, he probably expected John would quit his job and follow him back to London, no questions asked, but John wasn't sure he was ready for that. Not yet, at least.

The four of them had talked tonight, each telling bits of their lives the last two years, now that secrets could be told, and now John was ready for bed. He mentally tallied his beds—his guest room could sleep two, but he couldn't imagine any of them sharing. Greg deserved a bed, though, and looking at Sherlock, worn to the bone, so did he. If Mycroft took the couch…

#

He wasn't exactly sure when he drifted off, but John woke suddenly, with a gasp and a stifled shout.

He was still on the couch, but laying across the length of it now, with an afghan tucked around him and a pillow under his head. Someone had pulled off his shoes at some point and for a moment he wondered—he hadn't thought he'd been that tired. It made him feel uncommonly cared for, and he lay there in the dark, trying to remember the last time anyone had looked after him.

He turned to look at the fire, banked down to glowing embers as he inhaled-exhaled steadily, trying to get his heart rate back to where it should be.

When the quiet voice asked, "Nightmare?" he should have jumped, but instead the inquiry just added to his feeling of comfort, of being watched over.

"Yeah," was all he said, and concentrated on breathing. After a time, he said, "I didn't mean to wake you."

"I wasn't asleep."

John peered across the room, making out the familiar, long-missed silhouette in the armchair. "You must be tired, too," was all he said.

A breath. "More than you can know, I think, but my nerves don't allow me to sleep much—they've been on guard for too long."

"And you had such an easy time sleeping, before," John said, a hint of humor in his voice.

"Yes, well, there has to be something I'm not good at, John. I am human, after all."

Now John actually laughed. "I don't think that would exactly appear at the top of your list. Not since you were a baby, anyway—only new parents care about how good you are at sleeping."

"Maybe." Sherlock's voice was solemn. "What would you consider my most egregious faults, John?"

John started to make a flippant response, but hesitated. There was something … lost … in Sherlock's voice. He wasn't used to hearing him so uncertain, and angry though part of him was, he didn't have it in him to cause him any more hurt, not tonight. "I'd say vanity, you peacock, but that's not quite right … You're always so sure that you're right and the rest of us aren't, you don't give us a chance to help. You just go off on your own and leave us…"

"…Behind. I know." Sherlock sat quietly for a few moments. "You do understand, though, don't you? I truly did not have a choice."

With a sigh, John stood up and moved to the kitchen, reaching for the kettle and filling it by the nightlight on the stove. He got down two mugs and measured out milk and sugar, plopping in two teabags before he answered. He turned to Sherlock, leaning back against the counter, trying to find comfort in the anonymous dark. "I do understand that … that at the time you had no choice. I understand that your intentions were the best—heroic, even, if you'll allow it. But you still left us behind, Sherlock."

"I know, and I am sorry, John."

"I know," John echoed, pouring hot water into the mugs. "Where are the others?"

"Lestrade is in your room and Mycroft in the guest room. Anthea and the others left … sometime," Sherlock said with a careless wave of the hand.

John nodded. They stood quietly for a bit and then John fished a spoon from a drawer to scoop out the tea bags and picked up his mug with a nod toward the other and then headed back to the living room.

He sat back down and pulled the afghan over his legs, cupping the warm mug in his hands as he waited to see where Sherlock would chose to sit. After a moment's hesitation, he came and sat on the couch as well. John nodded and held out the end of the afghan. The room was chilly in the early Spring night.

They sat companionably, sipping their tea. "I could have helped, you know," John said after a while. "I mean, I know you couldn't tell me right away, and you needed me to be some weird kind of decoy for you, but … would it really have made a difference if I had left London to go help you instead of coming here?"

A sigh. "It wasn't a risk I was willing to take, but, believe me, John. There was nothing I would have welcomed more."

"I'm just saying … I could have helped. I was useful today, after all. Who knows? If you had taken me with you, you might have finished all this and been back to Baker Street months ago."

"I've been back less than 24 hours and you've got a concussion, bruised ribs, and were nearly shot by a sniper," Sherlock said, voice hesitant. "The cost if you had come with me would likely have been much higher."

"I pay my own debts, Sherlock, and I owed Moriarty, too."

"I know, but this? This was my debt, not yours."

"I thought we were friends?" John sad. "Friends help friends, remember?"

"One of the last things you said to me," Sherlock's voice was soft, and John winced, remembering what he'd said next.

"I never thought you were a machine, you know."

A shrug, tugging briefly at the afghan. "You didn't say anything I didn't deserve. At that moment, I needed you to think that. It's not your fault."

"I still shouldn't have said it," John told him. "You don't know how I've regretted that."

"No more than I've regretted making you watch, John. You weren't supposed to be back from Baker Street that quickly, but once you were there … I couldn't let you get any closer. I … I heard you, you know, saying I was your friend. I…"

His voice broke there and John just waited, soaking in the warmth of the tea, the afghan, and of having his best friend sitting beside him once more. "We both said things we shouldn't. Let's just … concentrate on the fact that now we have the chance to do better."

Sherlock nodded, and the two friends sat, shoulder to shoulder, sipping their tea and watching as the early light moved in, until the room was filled with the golden promise of a brand-new day.

THE END.

#

Notes: (I'm not altogether happy with this ending, but hope it meets your approval!)