(Note: Wow, so many really enthusiastic comments! I'm so happy you're all so excited about this!)

John leaned against the wall and didn't even try to supress his giggle. (A giggle! As if he were a 13-year old girl.) That had seriously been the most fun he'd had in ages—since long before he'd been shot. Could it really have been years since he'd cut loose and done something for the sheer fun of it?

And it hadn't been until Angelo showed up with his cane that he realized he'd done it all on his own two feet.

But then Mrs Hudson was there and Sherlock was up the stairs. The whole bloody police force was spread through the flat on the most specious of excuses—really, a drugs bust? All while Jennifer Wilson's case was sitting right there and DI Lestrade lounged in a chair as if he had all the confidence in the world they'd find something.

John didn't miss the warning look Sherlock gave him when he protested. (All while he reeled at the thought of his new friend drowning that vivid brilliance under the fog of drugs.) What he did know, though, was that this was inappropriate police behaviour, no matter what the circumstances. Even on his short acquaintance with Sherlock, he could understand Lestrade's "I'm dealing with a child" response to Sherlock's complaint. He could understand that—unusual as Sherlock's methods were, it would take unusual tactics to deal with him. As long as this fiasco didn't go as far as actual charges, well … John hadn't spent most of his adult life dealing with the army's finest coming to grips with their own mortality without learning that adults were often just tall, burly children, and that unorthodox actions somehow needed to be taken.

Still … if he was going to be moving in, this wasn't something he could afford to let happen again. There would be paperwork he couldn't let the Yard see, not if he wanted to keep his title a secret. And, more importantly, he couldn't risk his own name (either of them) getting into anything like a police or press report that mentioned a drugs bust.

"Do you have a warrant?" he asked, keeping his tone as mild as possible.

Lestrade gave him a sharp look, though John wasn't sure whether it was because he had interrupted his fun or because of the question itself. "And that's your business why, exactly?"

"Well, before I move my stuff in, I'd like to be sure this isn't a regular occurrence—certainly not one without valid cause. My reputation as a doctor will be totally shot if regular drugs busts start happening at my flat. Even if—or especially if—they're primarily a means of applying pressure to my flatmate," John said.

"Flatmate," said the detective flatly.

"It's why I was here earlier," John said, "You know, when you stopped by to beg Sherlock for his help—when you came without all your friends. I was taking a look at the flat."

"And you really are a doctor?"

John lifted his eyebrow. "Dr John Watson. Would you like some ID?"

"Er … no. Not right now," Lestrade said as Anderson and Donovan stared at them from the kitchen.

"Then maybe you could stop the hunt so we can all talk like civilized people?" John suggested. "I'm sure Sherlock would be happy to tell you what he's found out since that was the original point of getting involved, right, Sherlock?"

Sherlock was barely containing a grin of delight as he watched John much like a proud owner when their dog did something clever. (John decided he would examine that analogy later.) He had regained his equilibrium, though, as most of the officers filed out and down the stairs, leaving just the five of them as Lestrade explained who Rachel was. Had been. Jennifer Wilson's still-born daughter.

"Why would she still be upset?" asked Sherlock, and then froze as the he found himself the object of shocked stares. "Not good?" he asked John quietly.

"Bit not good, yeah," John said, trying to lend some verbal support, and—contrary to what Donovan and Anderson expected—finding himself more sympathetic than before. As if it hadn't already been obvious, it was clear that Sherlock was not a "people person." His grasp of details was astounding, but his understanding of how people interacted? John got the impression Sherlock's mother had taught him some basic manners, but never bothered to explain that they're meant to be used with everyone.

So, really, when Sherlock had run out the door and John realized exactly where Jennifer Wilson's phone was and that Sherlock had waltzed right out the door as if a serial killer was nothing … well, of course John had to follow.

It felt more like the army than he could believe, except for the complete absence of a string of command. It was impossible to get through to Lestrade. He had no means of contacting Sherlock because the man wasn't answering his texts. All he could hope was that the mobile signal on the netbook wouldn't disappear while he tried to direct the taxi to … wherever the hell they were going.

He was beginning to see why Stereotype Man was so concerned about Sherlock. Depending on his point of view, Sherlock could be seen as a menace or as a danger to himself. Either way, as John raced through the halls, part of him that longed for this kind of excitement every day … assuming he was able to save the git's life.

Part of him, though, knew it wasn't possible. It wouldn't be responsible to take these kinds of risks every day. It had been bad enough that he'd joined the army (even though the RAMC should have been completely safe). It had been bad enough he'd been shot. Bad enough that tonight alone he'd been abandoned, kidnapped, almost hit by a car, had risked his neck jumping across roofs, and was now actively trying to find a serial killer. Because now, unlike when he'd joined the army, he was a full-fledged earl and had capital-O Obligations that he couldn't ignore. It wasn't like he had an heir of his own waiting in line.

Which was why, when all was said and done, he headed off to get Chinese with Sherlock all while trying to think of ways to say he really couldn't do this.

Much as he wanted to.

Because, really, it was obvious that moving in with Sherlock Holmes was the furthest thing from what he'd envisioned—a quiet flatshare for some company while he got his feet under him again. An interlude before he moved across town to his waiting house and took up his responsibilities, putting aside his adrenalin addiction and army history like he had put away his teddy bear when he was six, or toy trucks when he was eleven. He just wanted one more intermission before he finally had to grow up altogether, putting childish things aside.

If it were up to him, he would move in with Sherlock in a heartbeat. The man was fascinating and living with him would clearly never be boring.

But John was not simply ex-army doctor John Watson. He was Sir John Brandon, Lord Undershaw, and some choices—some risks—were simply out of his control.

A conclusion that was only reinforced moments later as he watched Sherlock exchanging words with Stereotype Man. The mystery arch-enemy from the warehouse who turned out to be Sherlock's brother.

And John thought he and Harry had a bad relationship. At least he didn't spy on her, and he'd never once kidnapped Clara to try to find out her intentions. Because, really, who did that? Well, Mycroft Holmes, apparently … and Good Lord Above, what on earth had their parents been thinking? Sherlock and Mycroft? They certainly weren't names that let you fade into the background. Not for the first time, John blessed his parents for sensible traditional names—John might be one of the most common names around, but at least he didn't get people blinking in confusion whenever he said his name. Because, honestly, Mycroft was even worse than Sherlock…

Wait. Mycroft Holmes. Why did that sound familiar?

Sherlock made one last cutting remark about wars and traffic and stormed off, while John lingered. "Brother?"

"He's always been so difficult. You can imagine the Christmas dinners."

No, John really didn't think he could. "Your father was Siger Holmes, right? Our fathers knew each other, you know."

Mycroft lifted one elegant eyebrow. "Really?"

"Mm. He helped with my paperwork to enrol at Uni under my mother's name. I hadn't realized the family connection."

"Sherlock's reaction to that should be entertaining, at least," said Mycroft.

"If it comes up," John said with a shrug.

His casual gesture was apparently eloquent, though, because Mycroft's gaze sharpened as he said, "You're not moving in."

John shook his head. "It's too much of a risk. It would be irresponsible."

"But you saved his life tonight."

"I did, and I'm glad to have done. Life with Sherlock would never be dull…" His voice drifted off as he watched Sherlock stride away. "But I spent the last fifteen years risking my life, and things have changed. I have obligations that I might be ignoring, but that I can't set aside."

Mycroft just watched him, blinking slowly like he had at the warehouse. His eyes were just as sharp as his brother's, but the energy was contained, camouflaged. "And they are incompatible with sharing a flat with Sherlock?"

"It would be dangerous," John said, even as part of him yearned for that adrenalin rush.

"When you choose it to be, perhaps," Mycroft said. "I'm sure the flatshare agreement would not require your helping Sherlock on cases. You needn't risk yourself."

"And yet, I was doing nothing but walking along the street tonight when I was kidnapped," John reminded him, feeling a sense of satisfaction as the words hit home. "The risk seems to be there whether I want it or not."

"And what do you risk if you do not take him up on his offer?" Mycroft asked him. "A return of your limp? Days of dreary paperwork—because I do know how dreary that can be."

It sounded even worse hearing it spelled out. "It's an obligation, not a holiday. I've had my fun, but now it's time to buckle down to work."

Mycroft sniffed. "In your bedsit? Or in your family home? It seems to me that you've already outstripped one and the other you're not quite ready for. Would an interim flatshare be such a risk?"

"You're just trying to talk me into being your brother's bodyguard," John said.

"Hardly," Mycroft said. "I'm trying to make sure you know the choices available."

"I'm not a child, Mr Holmes. Nor am I an idiot. But I can't ignore my obligations for much longer—and if I move in with Sherlock, I won't be able … I just can't."

The man was staring at him, looking very genteelly stunned. "You believe you will like living with Sherlock too much."

"Yes," John told him with a nod, all while suppressing a sympathetic twinge for Sherlock, that his own brother would find it so hard to believe someone would enjoy his company. John wasn't blind. He could see the man was difficult, that he would be a challenging flatmate, but he was … John couldn't even think of the words. Brilliant. Not in the everyday way everyone used the word, to mean 'good job' or 'glad to hear it.' Sherlock was brilliant as in sparkling and bright and blinding. He would leave blinding headaches in his wake (ulcers too, probably), but oh, what a ride. This had been one of the best nights John could remember, and the idea of continuing this, having more days and evenings filled with this kind of excitement and challenge … it was too tempting to bear.

So to hear Mycroft sounding so sceptical about his own brother … John just shook his head. In a way, this was breaking his heart. All that promise, that bright friendship beckoning, and he had to walk away. He felt like he was abandoning Sherlock even though that was clearly ridiculous. He'd known the man less than 24 hours, after all. He'd be fine. They'd both be fine.

"Dr Watson," Mycroft said, calling him back as John turned away. "Sometimes we're tempted not because something is wrong, but because it's right."

John met the man's eyes and nodded. He knew what the man was trying to do—he couldn't even blame him. he wouldn't want to turn away a possible friend for Harry, either. That's what big brothers did, after all. Just, in this case … well, John wasn't as free to make his own life decisions as he might like.

And so with a nod, he turned back toward the blinding flame that was Sherlock Holmes, hoping to fill his senses with brilliance before trudging back into the grey dullness of familial obligations.

#

"What were you and Mycroft talking about?"

John pushed the beef and broccoli around his dish. "Temptation."

Even without raising his eyes, he could see Sherlock's eyebrows lift. "Indeed. And has my dear brother found the right means with which to tempt you?"

John forced his lips into a smile but didn't look up. "It's not your brother who's tempting me."

He could almost feel Sherlock's gaze boring through his head. "You're not moving in," he said, voice breathless, unsupported. "Something's changed. What changed? What did Mycroft do?"

"It's not Mycroft … and good God, what were your parents thinking when they named the two of you? I just … there are … damn it."

He fully expected Sherlock to burst out in frustration then, but the man restrained himself. In fact, he seemed more in control of himself than John felt. "What happened, John?"

"You were right about a lot of things, Sherlock, but you were wrong about one thing—well, two, if you count Harry being my sister. But, I do have an extended family who … well, I'm not close to them, exactly, but it's not that we don't care about each other. I just … I haven't been ready to face them yet."

"Because of your injury," Sherlock said—very much a statement, not a question.

John tipped his head in a not-quite-nod. "And the explanations … most of them didn't know I was even in the army, so … coming home not only without a job but … broken … I've been avoiding the confrontations."

Sherlock huffed. "If your family is remotely like mine, I can understand that. But why would that change your moving in with me? What did Mycroft say to you?"

John held up his hand, chopstick still holding a tree of broccoli. "Nothing. It wasn't your brother, Sherlock. Christ, the two of you are worse than me and Harry, aren't you? No, he was trying to convince me to change my mind and stay." He popped the vegetable in his mouth, buying himself some time while chewing.

Sherlock didn't wait, though. He drew himself up stiffly, just like he had earlier at Angelo's. "Of course. I understand, John, and I applaud your resistance to Mycroft's machinations. By all means, if you choose not to move in…"

"No," John cut in. "No, that's not it, Sherlock. The problem is my family, not yours. We have … I need to … I can't hide from them forever, and once they find out I'm back in London … Damn it." He dropped the chopsticks and shifted back in his chair, catching his breath before leaning back in. "The problem isn't that I don't want to move in. It's that I'm not going to be able to stay for long, Sherlock. There are things I'm going to need to do and it seems worse for both of us—me, anyway—if I move in now only to have to leave in a couple of months."

Sherlock looked unconvinced. "Indeed. I hadn't realized you'd only planned to stay for such a short time … not that I usually expect much else from my flatmates, you understand, but they tend not to plan ahead quite so … advertently as you. It's more a spontaneous decision, usually accompanied by shouting."

John could almost see the other man pulling away, even though his posture didn't change at all. For a moment, John thought it was for the best, this would be easier for both of them, but something in Sherlock's eyes changed his mind. "You think I'm saying this because I don't want to live with you?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Don't worry, John. You're hardly the first one."

"I didn't save your life tonight because I was tired of spending time with you, Sherlock," John told him pointedly. "Quite the contrary. I can't think of anything I'd enjoy more. Tonight has been … it's been…" His voice stalled there as he tried to find the words. "I've had more fun tonight than I can remember, but that's the problem, you see. If I let myself move to Baker Street, maybe start following you on cases … I'm not going to be able to tear myself away. Except I'll have to, because I can't hide from my family forever, and it'll be harder to leave then. It's hard enough now."

And that was way more sentiment than any English gentleman should ever utter aloud, thought John. Not without copious amounts of alcohol, at least, or being on one's deathbed. He could almost feel the earth rumbling as all his ancestors rolled over in their graves.

Sherlock, meanwhile, looked utterly shocked. "You want to move in."

"Yes, Sherlock. Obviously." John couldn't help the small grin at throwing one of Sherlock's favourite words back at him.

"You're worried you'll like it too much."

"Again, yes. That's what I've been saying."

"But you won't be able to stay because of … your family?"

John nodded. "That sums it up, yeah. It's bad enough I've been risking my life in the army all these years, but now … I just can't anymore. There are things I need to do, that I've put off for too long."

There was a spark in Sherlock's pale eyes again. "But you do still need somewhere to live while you sort it out, do you not?"

"Well," John said, relishing the way the words slipped from his tongue. "I suppose I do."

#