Nothing tonight was going according to plan, thought John an hour later.

Or, at least, not his plan. Moriarty's plan, on the other hand, was going fine.

Sherlock had arrived promptly at midnight and John had been forced to go through with the charade of being Moriarty's mouthpiece, all while trying to warn off his flatmate. And, really, what was Sherlock thinking, arranging this meeting in the first place?

John couldn't decide if it was more reassuring or terrifying that Sherlock had brought his gun along.

Then, Sherlock did not take advantage when John grabbed Moriarty from the back, yelling at Sherlock to run. Because, no, that would have been practical, the rational decision. The bomb was going to go off eventually, it was obvious. Wasn't it better that only one of them die? And better still if they could bring Moriarty with them?

But no, the two idiots were having too much fun taunting each other … though John thought he'd seen a flicker in Sherlock's face that said he wasn't enjoying himself anymore. He supposed it was flattering that Sherlock assigned more weight to John's life than he had to the faceless strangers of the earlier rounds.

The circling and threats had come to an end, though, and Moriarty had left with an airy "No you won't," in reply to Sherlock's "Catch you later." John was finally able to breathe without the smell of explosives in his nose and now was leaning against the dressing room, trying to keep his balance against the sliver of wall, crouched over the pieces of half-assembled drying rack. "People will talk," he told Sherlock, trying to lighten the moment as the idiot rubbed the back of his head with a loaded gun.

For a minute, he thought they were going to be all right.

And then the sniper sights were back and Moriarty was gloating, "I'm so changeable!" as he strolled toward them.

The tension that had barely started to diffuse was back, heavier and thicker than ever and John was more sure than ever that the entire building was going to explode. He watched Sherlock aiming his gun at the explosives and supposed there were worse ways to go, than taking out a criminal mastermind with them.

But then there was a rustle of sound from the gallery above and the red sights on Sherlock's chest blinked out. John looked down at himself and saw that his were gone as well. Mycroft, he wondered?

He saw the change in Moriarty's face as he saw his advantage disappear, and then the man was pulling out his own gun and stalking right toward Sherlock, his face enraged.

He was going to shoot him, John thought, absolutely sure of it. Every line in the man's body, in his face, broadcast his intention, and there was no argument, no logic that would convince him otherwise.

Moving on instinct, hoping he had time before any bullets were fired, John snatched up one of the wooden dowels from the floor beside him and—in a move that would have made his long-ago fencing master proud—lunged forward.

The strike was perfect, the old muscle memory recalling exactly how to balance the stick for an accurate hit with the tip. "Fencing is not whacking," old Mr Samson had instructed. "It's all about accuracy and angles. The more precise your stroke, the more accurate you will be. Brute force will never win, you need finesse."

Hours of practice as a child (not to mention singlestick training and the whole fighting with the army thing), had left John with a fair skill with an epee and, unshaped and unbalanced as this wooden dowel was, in the end it didn't matter. The bare flick of his wrist made the stick hit Moriarty's hand just hard enough to make him drop the gun as John extended in as perfect a lunge as he could manage from his half-crouch on the floor.

As Moriarty turned his enraged eyes his way, John brought his back foot up from his lunge and stood, end of the stick steady at the other man's throat. The dowel might not have a sharp tip, but John was in the perfect position to stop any threatening moves the man might make. Even as he found his balance, though, he heard pounding footsteps coming toward them and, as a wave of Mycroft's men flooded the room, Moriarty abandoned his bravado and dove through the changing room.

As much as John wanted to chase after him, to cudgel him with the stick in his hand, his knees had other ideas. Fighting their sudden weakness, he stepped back toward the sliver of wall that had supported him before, he let his arm fall, dropping the dowel back into its pile as several men passed between him and Sherlock in a blur as they pursued Moriarty. John, though, just let his eyes close. That had been too damned close.

"John?"

"Mm?"

"Are you all right?" The note of concern in Sherlock's voice was even more frantic than earlier.

"Yeah," John said. "Just tired. I really don't want any more surprises tonight."

Which was why he just groaned as he heard, "That was impressive, Dr Watson," from the far end of the pool as Mycroft strolled in. "I didn't know they taught fencing in the RAMC these days."

"Not specifically, though even medical personnel know basic self-defence. But no, not much call for actual fencing. That was earlier—my father insisted that, if I was going to run around the garden pretending to have sword fights, I should do it properly."

"Your precision was admirable. It's just a pity you were dragged into a situation that caused you to need it."

Just like that, the air was tense and jagged again as Sherlock bristled at his brother's words. "Well, there's no reasoning with a madman, is there?" John asked as he opened his eyes. "Moriarty wanted me to be the fifth pip. He wasn't going to let anything stop him—even to having his men kidnap me right from the house in Belgravia."

"It was lucky you had time to send that text," Mycroft said, "Or we might not have been here in time."

"You texted Mycroft?" Sherlock spat out, sounding betrayed.

"The car showed up at my house saying Mr Holmes needed me," John explained. "While I was getting my coat, I sent Mycroft a text asking where we were going this time. I thought you were in trouble, so texting you wouldn't have done me any good."

"Whereas alerting me did quite a bit of good. I sent one of my men to the house to find out what had happened and your butler—you should really let him know you're all right—said you'd been enticed away by someone saying you were needed in regards to the fifth pip. Obviously, I knew that meant you were in trouble. That in conjunction with Sherlock's website… Well, as I say. It was fortunate."

"Except now Moriarty knows about John's … heritage," Sherlock said. "That could be … bad."

But John was shaking his head. "He doesn't. Or, I don't think he does. From what I gathered, they just followed me there and thought I was visiting. He made cracks about making house calls and asked what I wanted with the Earl of Undershaw's house when the man is out of the country. I told him the cook had known my mother—which is true—and that I was visiting, which was also true." He couldn't keep the grin from spreading across his face. "He's going to be so mad at himself when he realizes."

#

Later, after they had accepted a ride home to 221B (at John's insistence), John collapsed into his chair. "I thought when I left Afghanistan that I could stop worrying about IEDs," he said.

Sherlock had sat in his chair opposite, but with none of the casual sprawl he'd had earlier. "John, I… I didn't mean…"

"It's okay, Sherlock. It wasn't your fault," John told him. "I was the one stupid enough to walk right into a trap." Because, really, he wasn't going to stop beating himself up for that any time soon, he thought. He could only imagine what his CO would have said about it were John still in the army. You don't leave a secure location without back-up … or weapons. About the best that could be said was that he had gotten that text out to Mycroft before leaving the house so he knew they were in trouble.

He rubbed at his forehead, as if he could massage some sense into it, as if it would help understand the sheer insanity of the night. How had his taking one step toward his family responsibilities ended with him wearing a bomb?

"Nevertheless, the trap would not have been laid were it not for my involvement," Sherlock was saying, in as close to an apology as John had heard from the man. "That you then tried to save my life … I don't know what to say."

"It's not your fault you were targeted by a madman, Sherlock. I'm just sorry I made it worse."

"Worse?" John looked up, surprised at the strangled tone to Sherlock's voice. "John, you were almost killed tonight—several times—because of me. The fault may lie at Moriarty's feet, but not only were you at risk, but you saved my life with your frankly unexpected fencing skills. Believe me, you helped keep things from escalating because … you were right. The … game … was inappropriate."

John wondered if he'd gone into shock without noticing. "Yeah, well, it wasn't your game. You didn't ask to play, and you weren't the one who blithely got into the stupid car."

He winced at the self-loathing in his voice, bracing himself for whatever acerbic comment Sherlock was about to make, and was therefore surprised when his friend said, "No, I'm the one who set up the meeting on my website."

And just like that, for the first time in days, they were laughing. For a moment, it was as if the days of self-doubt had never happened. "Yeah," John finally said, catching his breath, "Next time you should check with me first so I can clear my schedule, make sure my butler won't be traumatized. Good help is hard to find, you know."

Sherlock sobered abruptly. "I do, in fact, know that, John. I don't want you to think that … your efforts are not appreciated. I … may have gotten caught up in … and let you feel as if your input was not helpful…"

The apology—assuming that's what it was—was so entertainingly awkward, John thought about letting Sherlock stumble on, but he was just too tired and held up his hand. "It's fine, Sherlock."

"I never intended you to be involved, John."

John huffed out a breath. "Because you didn't want me at risk or because you didn't want me spoiling your game?"

"Both," Sherlock said with an annoying look that was like a parody of sincerity. "I never thought you would be at risk."

John wasn't sure which part of that statement he was more annoyed at. He didn't want to get into another fight about the existence of heroes or the poor judgement of letting yourself get swept into a game of puzzles with a madman who wrapped his pieces in explosives. He just wanted to appreciate the fact that he was here in one piece, rather than sprayed through that chlorine-scented air as red mist. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the chair. When had he been this tired?

"You're still unhappy with me," Sherlock's voice came through the buzzing fatigue in John's ears.

"I was a human IED earlier, Sherlock," he said, voice crisp. "There's nothing about that scenario that makes me happy."

"It wasn't my fault, John."

"I know that, Sherlock," John said. "In fact, I already acknowledged that. That doesn't mean I'm happy that it happened. I'm just not blaming you for it."

"No, but…"

John heaved a sigh and opened his eyes to glare at his flatmate. "Sherlock, leave it. I'm not an idiot. I understand how it happened and … I chose to be here. Remember that first night? I told you I was torn between wanting to move in with you and needing to deal with my family responsibilities—but I wanted this. I might not have expected a mad bomber, but that doesn't make a difference. If I can be here, be useful, I'll do whatever I can to make it happen."

He watched the relief settle into Sherlock's face and continued, "I want to be here, but you also need to remember that I don't have to be here. I'm not trying to make ends meet on my army pension and I have a perfectly good house with an excellent cook not all that far away. I'm not going to let a consulting criminal drive me away, but, Sherlock, if I feel like I'm not … contributing … if I feel unneeded …" He let his voice trail off, the unspoken "unwanted, unappreciated" hanging in the air.

If he hadn't been watching so closely, he wouldn't have seen the way Sherlock's face crumpled, the merest twitch at the corners of his eyes, the tiniest flinch. "You are," he said in a small voice.

"Then we don't have a problem," John said. "Except for that I'm exhausted and need to call my butler so he can get some sleep tonight, too. We're fine, all right? I'll see you in the morning."

And knowing that Sherlock was constitutionally unable to let anything go without in-depth analysis, he stood and left the room.

#