(A/N) The Science Of Seduction and acids-and-bases, thank you very much for continuing to review. And thanks to those of you who alerted the story. Here's yet another installment of…

A Rose on the Grave

Chapter 4: Sticks and Stones

"I'm sorry about this, John," Sherlock said to his unconscious flatmate as Hunter helped him heave him onto the hospital bed. "I'll make it up to you when I get back. I'll get the milk next week."

"You'd better not waste this opportunity, Holmes," Hunter warned him, going for the black trench coat she'd come in. "If you get into trouble out there, you're on your own. Unlike your brother and the doctor, I don't care what happens to you," she said as she helped him get the coat on over his injured shoulder. "I just want you to get Shay back."

"That's the plan…only…don't let him go anywhere until I get back," Sherlock said quietly, looking back at John.

"Why? Is there something more you're not telling us?"

"I'm not sure," he said, more to himself than to Hunter. "But if it's me Yew Branch wants…they'll go after him first."

"You'd better get going. He won't be out for long," Hunter said as she took a seat in one of the chairs surrounding the bed. "Just to be clear, you do know where you're going?"

"Oh, yes. I'm not going to tell you, though. You'll have to tell them where I've gone the moment they ask you."

Hunter just shrugged. "Your funeral."

"No, Hunter Carson. Your funeral if anything should happen to him."

XxX

When John Watson groggily came to about fifteen minutes later, the first words out of his mouth were, "He's not here, is he."

"No," Mycroft's voice answered him, "but I know where he's gone and I've sent some people there already to back him up if he should need it."

"If you already knew where he was going, why did Hunter feel the need to knock me out?" he asked, his eyes slowly starting to come into focus to find the recovery room now occupied by Hunter, Mycroft, and Kathleen.

"Because he wasn't the one trying to stop him at the present moment," Hunter answered, her closed eyes and her crossed arms clearly indicating her annoyance.

"Where's he gone, then?"

"The British Museum, I imagine," Mycroft said.

"How do you figure that?"

"Champollion. Most likely a reference to Jean-Francois Champollion: the French scholar who cracked the code of the Rosetta Stone nearly two centuries ago. The Rosetta Stone is, of course, housed in the British Museum."

"Why would he go there?"

"Even I don't know that, but it does seem the most likely option at this point," Mycroft said.

John drew his hands up to his face, shaking his head as he groaned in frustration. "Why did you let him go? Why did any of you…in his condition…why?"

"Do you really think we could have stopped him?" Kathleen asked.

John's hands slipped down, his eyes opening wide as he slowly started to realize. "You wanted him to go, didn't you? If you'd really wanted to stop him, you could have."

"If my brother is capable of movement, I'm just as content to let him continue the game. Under normal circumstances, I wouldn't press so hard, but I want my daughter back. You understand?" Mycroft asked, his tone going much harder than usual. John glanced toward Kathleen, who at least had the decency to look torn over the decision, but she nodded. The doctor couldn't say he was entirely unsympathetic toward their plight. Things had changed since this morning, after all, and they were all desperate to get Shay back…but John wasn't willing to pay Sherlock as a price to do that.

"This is ridiculous. He shouldn't be moving at all. I'm going to put a stop to this right now," he said as he got up from the bed and began to move toward the door. Hunter quickly moved to block his way, though.

"What would you do? Drag him back?" she asked.

"If I have to."

"He's under surveillance. He'll be fine," Mycroft insisted.

"You really think he can't ditch your surveillance? Him? Sherlock Holmes? And here I thought you were supposed to be clever," John said, his tone much harsher than normal as his worry for his flatmate mounted with each passing moment.

"Dr. Watson, please," Kathleen attempted to placate him. "They'll let us know if they lose track of him. In the meantime…Lestrade won't be bothering us. There are some things we feel you need to know…in light of what's happening."

Seriously considering repaying Hunter for her earlier treatment for several more minutes, John eventually let his shoulders slump in defeat, turning to face the two political powerhouses. Mycroft was the one to finally offer up the answer he wanted.

"Yes, John Watson…we're going to tell you about Sherlock, Yew Branch, and the night Rosette Christopher was murdered."

XxX

With the help of Hunter's coat and the money she'd leant him, Sherlock was easily able to sneak out of the hospital and get a cab back to Baker Street. He imagined his walking around with no shoes and a bandaged foot would be difficult to explain, so he needed the stopover in order to retrieve some of his own clothing. Thankfully, Mrs. Hudson was out when he arrived or he would have had a time of it explaining himself. He sent the cabbie away and called for another one while he was changing in an effort to start throwing off his brother's watchdogs, whom he was perfectly aware of.

The first order of business was getting out of the hospital gown and into a decent set of clothing, all with one arm. No easy feat. The next was getting a shoe on over the bandages on his foot, something else that was decidedly not easy. Once he was properly clothed and had got his arm back in its sling, he grabbed Hunter's coat and draped it over the injured shoulder while trying to get his left arm into the sleeve: a bit more of a struggle without Hunter's help. He also retrieved his gun, deciding it was going to remain at his side from now on. To leave it behind before had been nothing less than stupid, something he prided himself on not being. The last touch was to retrieve John's old cane, deciding not to punish his aching body anymore than was absolutely necessary.

By the time he was ready, the new cab had arrived and he went out to meet it, asking to go to the British Museum. Once he got there, though, he didn't go straight in. He went for a stroll around the area, ducking here and there as best he could until two men in suits finally walked past his hiding place. Feeling rather pleased with himself, he stayed hidden a while longer, until his pursuers were long gone. It had, of course, already occurred to him that Mycroft might have figured out Moriarty's clue as well and sent some people ahead to the museum, but he was at least pleased to say he'd been able to slip one surveillance detail.

In all this time, Sherlock had not given himself a moment to think about how much the fact that Moriarty somehow knew about the museum bothered him, but as he entered the building, he found the thought getting to him. He had never told anyone about it.

It had been for Rosette's thirteenth birthday. Other girls wanted their ears pierced. Rosette had wanted to see the Rosetta Stone. She'd had an avid interest in all things Egyptian ever since her mother had bought her a picture book about Cleopatra when she was six. Mycroft and Kathleen had been away at university at the time and there had been plans for a trip into the city, but an emergency had come up that required all four of their parents.

Sherlock and Rosette had been into the city before, but they'd never been by themselves, so they'd decided then was as good a time as any. They'd snuck out and caught the underground to Tottenham Court Road Station and walked to the museum from there. It hadn't been much of a hike from the entrance to their destination.

"Isn't it beautiful, Sherlock?" she'd said, getting down on her knees and making a proper scene in front of the display case and earning the stares of several other museum-goers.

"Beautiful here having the meaning of 'enormous slab of broken stone'?" he'd asked, adopting his usual stoic tone, even though he was pleased she was happy.

"That's exactly what it means. Nothing is more beautiful than an old piece of rock with pictures on it," she'd shot back, only half teasing. "You know, sometimes I think Champollion must have been a lot like you."

"Like me?"

"Yes. He spent months trying to figure out the hieroglyphics, hardly resting or eating in the weeks leading up to the breakthrough, and when he finally figured it out, he collapsed for a week. You're like that. You work at something until you have the answer, no matter what it takes. They'll remember you for it someday."

"Do you think so?" he'd asked, getting on his knees beside her.

"I know it. Maybe you'll be the one to solve Minoan Linear A?"

"Why would I do that? What's so interesting about a dead language?"

"Can you imagine everything we might learn about the Minoan culture? We know so little right now, it's-"

"Boring."

"All right," she'd laughed. "Perhaps this will grab you. Linear A is a code no one's been able to solve for centuries. How would it feel to make proper idiots out of all those stuffy old professors?"

He'd not wanted to admit it, but he'd known that she'd known she'd caught his interest. Something like that would be a proper challenge.

"This was worth it," she'd said, turning to him suddenly and throwing her arms around him. "We'll get in so much trouble, but it was so worth it."

"Stop that. Don't," he'd complained, trying to push her off.

"Thank you for coming with me."

She'd been right, of course. They'd spent the rest of the day exploring the Egyptian gallery and had been subjected to very thorough punishments upon returning home. Apparently, the entire city had been looking for them…it had been worth it, though.

All of this was on Sherlock's mind as he passed through the Great Court. The stark white central area had still been a library when he'd come with Rosette, but the stone was still in place. He could just picture the two of them on their knees before it as they had been all those years ago, her hugging him and him trying to push her away. He'd always been so annoyed whenever she did that. Might he have done things differently…if he'd known those hugs were limited? God, but he'd give just about anything to have her hug him one last time. Maybe he'd even hug her back…

"Done some growing up, have we…Sherlock Holmes?" an unfamiliar voice sounded somewhere to his left, instantly snapping him out of his thoughts.

An old man had managed to squeeze in beside him amongst the crowd of viewers surrounding the stone. His left hand aimed a camcorder at the ancient stone, but Sherlock could clearly see his right hand resting on the compact revolver in his pocket.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"Maybe a little," he responded casually. "Who are you?"

"I guess you'd say I'm a messenger. You can call me Gabriel."

"Bit high-handed, your bosses."

"Not really. I imagine you'll have realized this by now, but we don't want any ransom for Shayla Holmes…at least, nothing monetary. What we want is that disk you stole from us."

"What if I told you I destroyed that devil spawn a long time ago?" he asked tentatively, not particularly surprised by the demand.

"If that were the case, I don't think I'd have to tell you your niece's life would be forfeit."

XxX

"My mother really loved my father," Kathleen started to explain once John made it perfectly plain he wasn't going to sit for this explanation. "She was the Christopher….Rosemarie. My father was the one to change his name when they married. He was born Jonathan Davis."

"Why do I need to know this?" John interrupted, uncertain how it was connected.

"Because I want you to understand about my mum. No one approved of their marriage at all. Davis had no known family and was working a low-income job when they met. It seemed destined for disaster. Only…he seemed to turn it around for her. He went back to university, and with the Christopher connections, he was able to start rising through the ranks of the Secret Intelligence Service. No one ever suspected…not once…"

"What?" John prompted.

"That Davis was a fake. He was a top agent in a secret organization known as Yew Branch. He'd been ordered to get close to the Christopher family by any means necessary. If those means meant marrying my mother and having children with her, I'm sure that meant little to him," she said, her eyes going hard as she spoke.

"What exactly is Yew Branch?"

"Would you believe me if I told you they were a group bent on world domination?"

"Probably not…but this doesn't seem like the time for joking, so…world domination, then?"

"Yes. Whether they can actually pull it off, I couldn't say, but they meant business. They had members everywhere. Davis had some sort of coup in the works. He'd procured some very important foreign defense information and copied it to a floppy."

"A floppy?" John asked incredulously.

"This was back in 1990, Dr. Watson. Computers weren't yet quite as reliable. He erased the information from the system and stole the disk. He might have gotten clean away with it…if not for Sherlock and Rosette."

"Sherlock and Rosette? How…how old were they? What happened?"

"They were fourteen and fifteen. The house was meant to be empty that night. I was away at university and Mum was out working. Rosette had gone out on…well…her first date that night. It was a boy from her year. They went out for dinner, but it…didn't go well, so she came home early. She called Sherlock and he snuck over to see her. Heh…he did love to sneak past security," she said quietly, trailing off.

"They saw something," John said, his voice just as quiet.

"They caught him when some of his men came to secure the disk," Mycroft continued. "Davis tried to talk his way out of it, but even then, Sherlock was too smart for that…and not smart enough to know when he should stay out of something. No one's really sure why he took Rosette and not Sherlock. My only guess is that he didn't want to arouse our father's anger. Rosemarie wouldn't have been much of a threat when she learned of her husband's betrayal, but our parents were another matter. They would have destroyed him. They did try, but the point is Davis made his biggest mistake in kidnapping Rosette and leaving Sherlock for dead."

"He managed to get the word to the Holmes and they were able to get him treated for his injuries," Kathleen picked up the narrative once again. "Once he could move again, he was on their trail in a minute. He didn't trust anyone but himself to find Rosette. He followed the tracks…like he always does…and he actually managed to get the disk back from Davis…but everything went bad after that. He allowed himself to be taken in order to get to Rosette…and when he finally found her, Davis threatened to kill her if Sherlock didn't give him the disk."

"So…what did he do?" John asked.

"Rather than give in to his demands…or allow Rosette to die…Sherlock killed Jonathan Davis…shot him right between the eyes," Mycroft answered when Kathleen was unable to.

"He…saved her? How did she die, then?"

"Just when things seemed like they might turn out for the better… a sniper's bullet hit Rosette in the stomach. Then the sniper sealed them in. Sherlock searched for a way out…but Rosette knew she was dying. She asked him to stay with her…and he did. He held her…until she died. It was at least another half hour before anyone found them."

"God," John murmured. He didn't need to imagine what it was like to see a friend gunned down in front of him…but to be so young…and to watch her die…knowing there was nothing that could be done to stop it…

"He blames himself for it," Kathleen added. "For not being fast enough…for not thinking there might have been a sniper…but mostly I think he blames himself for surviving when she didn't. The only reason anyone could think of for his life being spared was that he knew where this disk was."

"And what happened to it?"

"We don't know," Mycroft said. "Sherlock said he destroyed it. We even had him take a polygraph."

"But you didn't believe him," John supplied.

"Would you?" Kathleen asked with a pained smile.

"England's arm of Yew Branch fell that night. Sherlock was able to turn many of them over to the police. No one really thought they were beaten, of course. We tried to keep a closer eye on the foreign branches after that, but they're a tough group to catch wind of," Mycroft explained. "No doubt Sherlock's been waiting for this, but I don't think it's happened quite the way he expected."

"What happened to your mum?" John asked Kathleen.

"She just…lost it…completely," the woman said slowly. "She really did love Davis…and to have him betray her…and to lose both him and her youngest on the same night…she was never really the same again. She retired from politics and died in an institution only a year later."

"From what?"

"Who really knows? She just didn't want to live anymore…and that left me the last Christopher. I stayed with the Holmes' whenever I was home from school and…when it felt right…Mycroft and I followed in our parents' footsteps…then married. Shay was born not long after."

"What does all this have to do with Shay?" John asked. It all seemed to keep coming back to her.

"Well…before she was born, Sherlock had been retreating more and more into himself. He'd had drug problems even before he entered university and it only got worse after that. Shay…seemed to have a healing effect on him, though," Mycroft said, what could almost pass for a fond smile gracing his face as he remembered. "He adored her…in his own way. He cleaned up for her…and when she was little, he loved spending time with her."

"So…what happened?"

"She grew up," Kathleen answered as she pulled out her phone, flipping through its databanks until she found what she was looking for. "Who would you say this is a picture of, doctor?" she asked, showing him the picture on her phone. It appeared to be a picture of Shay…a school picture, perhaps. She was pictured from the waist up, wearing a sleeveless purple blouse. Her auburn hair had been pulled back and braided.

"Shay," he answered automatically.

Kathleen shook her head. "No. This is a picture of Rosette…taken a few months before she was killed."

"My God," John whispered, slowly taking the phone in his hands and going over every detail of the image. If there was a difference between the two girls, he couldn't see it.

"A cruel trick of genetics," Mycroft said quietly as Kathleen took her phone back. "My daughter looks nothing like me. Shayla and her late aunt are virtually identical."

"That's why Sherlock can hardly look at her," John said. "Whenever he does…"

"He sees Rosette. He sees his failure…and the friend he lost," Kathleen said. "She is pain to him."

"It isn't fair," Hunter growled quietly, making herself known in the conversation for the first time. "That girl…adores him…and that bloody sod can't even see her for who she is."

"That's enough, Hunter," Kathleen said firmly, her eyes filled with tears she refused to shed. "It isn't his fault. If it's anyone's fault, it's Davis'."

"Not his fault? Forgive me, Mrs. Holmes, but he's a grown man. He should bloody well learn to deal with it."

"Hey!" John snapped at the bodyguard. "Lay off him!"

Raising a quizzical eyebrow at the vehemence with which he defended his flatmate, Hunter finally backed down.

"Something you need to understand about my brother, John, is that he's very strong…but it's because he's so strong that he's fragile. It's been happening faster ever since the incident with Moriarty, but if someone doesn't make Sherlock realize that soon, he will break."

John really didn't know what to say to any of this. It was probably the most straightforward Mycroft Holmes had ever been with him. Thankfully, he was spared having to say anything when Mycroft's phone rang.

"Yes?" the elder Holmes said into the device. Several moments later, he wrapped up with, "Thank you. What a shock."

"Well?" Kathleen asked.

"That was Randolph. I don't suppose anyone's surprised they've lost him?"

"Sherlock," John said softly, heading straight for the door. No one tried to stop him this time.

XxX

"Her life would be forfeit?" Sherlock asked. "Could you have picked a more worn cliché?"

"Probably not," Gabriel answered with on odd leer, "but the trouble with clichés is they tend to have a ring of truth to them, hence the repetition. Survival of the fittest, eh?"

"Yet another one."

"It's not untrue. The point being, though, that I don't need to tell you her life would be worthless under those circumstances because we both know you haven't destroyed that disk. You've kept it all these years, studied its contents extensively, hoping to bring us down…perhaps even something so human as avenging the death of your friend. Trust me; we know you, Sherlock Holmes."

"Why would you want that disk, anyway? No doubt the information on it has long since become obsolete."

"You think so? Look again. There's something you've missed if you think it's obsolete."

"Impossible," Sherlock fired back softly, trying not to draw too much attention. "I know the contents of that disk backward and forward. If there were anything there to be seen, I would have seen it by now."

"Still a child. Dead for twenty-one years and Jonathan Christopher's still outsmarting you."

"Davis!" Sherlock hissed, still not quite looking at his opponent. "Jonathan Davis. That's the name he's buried under."

"Ooh, touched a nerve, have I? Does it irk you? Being told there's something you're not seeing?"

Normally, it wouldn't. Normally, he would be intrigued, but this was a mystery that had eluded him for years…the only one that had ever really mattered…and the only one he couldn't crack.

"Where are my brother's drones?" he queried, changing the subject suddenly. "I should think they would have interfered by now."

"They've been taken care of. I didn't want anyone interrupting while I was trying to talk to you."

So there were at least five injured men lying about somewhere, either dead or in need of medical attention.

"You've made your demands, and if I know your consultant at all, you're also meant to point me in the right direction. So what is it? What's the clue?"

"Look at the dirt, Mr. Holmes. Examine it very closely. They tell me you can do it."

"And how am I supposed to-"

Under normal circumstances, he would have been faster, moved out of the way in time, but his injuries had slowed his reaction time, so his burned foot was right there when Gabriel smashed his own thick boot down on it.

"You have to admit, you walked right into that one," the messenger said snidely.

"Yes…yes, I did," he groaned as he slowly sank to the floor, pain reverberating up and down his leg.

"You've got what you need now. I suggest you mull over our offer a few days…probably stay off that leg."

Several people had backed away when the assault had begun and Sherlock thought he heard someone calling for security. It was not, however, museum security that responded, much to Sherlock's horror.

"Back away from him," John ordered as he ran toward them, his gun drawn and aimed at Gabriel's head. Hunter was close behind. Within moments, Sherlock felt the muzzle of a gun pressed against his head.

Stupid, stupid, stupid!

"No…I don't think I will," Gabriel said quietly. While this exchange was going on, Sherlock had been slowly reaching for his own gun, but then he felt the muzzle lift away and was instead met with the butt of the revolver smashing against his head. Sherlock went down, dazed and disoriented from the blow.

"One move and he dies," Gabriel warned, still aiming for Sherlock as he slowly backed away.

"You won't kill him," John said.

"Maybe not…but you won't take that risk, will you."

"John…" Sherlock ground out, the world still spinning violently around him. "He won't…just shoot him."

Before anyone could do anything, Gabriel changed his target, aiming at John Watson and firing off a round.

"John!" Sherlock shouted.

Several people screamed at the sound of the gun going off. There wasn't even a moment to react. John couldn't move out of the way, but he did manage to turn slightly to the side so that the bullet only grazed his shoulder, rather than striking it outright.

Hunter pursued Gabriel as he ran, firing after him and missing, not willing to risk firing too much for fear of hitting a bystander. John made his way straight to Sherlock, kneeling down beside him and helping him sit up.

"Sherlock? Can you hear me? Does your head hurt?"

"What do you think?" he asked, closing his eyes and shaking his head briefly to clear it.

"Look at me, Sherlock," the doctor ordered, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look up. Taken aback by the intensity, Sherlock opened his eyes. John was relieved to note that both his pupils were the same size: a good sign there probably wasn't extensive brain damage. "What about dizziness? Do you feel dizzy at all?"

"No, not anymore. That was over pretty quick."

"Where are we?"

"British Museum."

"What's my name?"

"John bloody Watson. Why all the questions?"

"Checking for confusion or memory loss. That was a pretty bad blow."

"He got away," Hunter reported angrily as she stomped back toward them.

"Typical."

"Well, I see that blow to the head hasn't changed your sunny disposition."

"Leave it, Hunter," John ordered sourly. "He might have mild traumatic brain injury."

"A concussion, idiot," Sherlock said to the blank face the bodyguard gave them. "Just tell my brother his agents are out of commission."

"I'd gathered as much when none of them answered my calls on the way over here, believe it or not."

"Why did you let him come here?" Sherlock demanded of Hunter. "I told you not to let him leave."

"I did come with him, incase you hadn't noticed."

"That makes me feel so much better. Look at him! He's been shot!"

"It's just a graze, Sherlock. It'll be okay," John insisted. "You seem fine for the moment. They'll want to check you over again at the hospital, though."

"It's the foot we probably ought to worry about. He smashed it pretty good when…he…" Sherlock's voice died in his throat when he glanced down at his foot and happened to see a smear of dirt where Gabriel had stomped on it.

"Sherlock?"

"Quick, John! We need to bag that shoe!"

XxX

Ultimately, the encounter proved to be not as bad as it could have been. Mycroft's agents were all recovered and Sherlock's foot was only badly bruised, nothing broken; the burns had only been aggravated, and the hospital staff diagnosed him as not having a concussion, which he essentially proved to them by deducing just where the planted dirt sample on his shoe had come from…apparently somewhere in Greenwich. Sherlock hadn't spoken since he figured this out, though. He abstained from the usual bitching and moaning about being stuck in the hospital and being looked over by any doctor not John. He just sat in his bed, staring blankly at nothing.

Later that night, after he'd refused to talk to Mycroft or Lestrade about what had happened, John slipped quietly into the recovery room. For a long while, he just stood quietly beside him.

"Why won't you talk to Lestrade?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?"

Silence.

"Do you want to find Shay or don't you? If we don't cooperate with them, they can't help."

"Can't help? What are they going to find?" Sherlock finally muttered, still not looking at him. "Do you really think this puzzle's meant for anyone but me?"

"Probably not," John responded as if his flatmate hadn't been mute for the last five hours, "but you're hurt. You don't have to do this on your own."

"Are you all right?"

"What?"

"Are you all right?" Sherlock repeated, nodding vaguely at his left shoulder. "I saw the bandage earlier."

"This? It's fine. I hardly feel it. There wasn't even much blood. They just needed to clean it. I think they only wanted to bandage it because of everything else that's happened recently."

"Well…what happens next time…if you can't dodge?"

"Sherlock-"

"They won't kill me. They'll never kill me so long as I possess something of value to them. Anyone close to me is fair game, though. You're closer to me than anyone. Just how long do you expect to survive?"

Though he couldn't deny the tiny stirring of warmth he felt at being acknowledged as closest to Sherlock Holmes, now was not the time to talk about it. "I'll survive as long as I have to. I've no plans to die anytime soon."

"No one ever does," Sherlock said, his voice sharp with bitterness as he turned to look out the window.

"So…what's so important about Greenwich?" John asked after another long silence.

"It's where the dirt came from."

"I know. I remember…but what's significant about it? You've been brooding for a while now."

"I haven't-"

"You have," John cut him off. "About five hours now. What's wrong?"

"I couldn't…forget the composition of that dirt if I wanted to. I haven't…been there in twenty-one years. She's buried there…in Greenwich," he finally answered.

John didn't really need to ask if that was where they were bound once Sherlock had recovered. This was all connected somehow. Where else would a clue from Greenwich be leading them?

"You won't have to go alone. I'll be with you," he reassured him, laying a hand on his shoulder.

"They told you about it…didn't they," Sherlock said, reaching up a hand to touch John's.

"They did," he said; there was no sense in denying it, "but I'd like to hear about it from you sometime."

Sherlock shook his head. He didn't know if he could ever speak of it. Even after all this time, the wound still felt fresh…as raw as the moment it had been inflicted. Sometimes he thought everything he'd ever done…had merely been an effort to forget that pain, and the past week's events were starting to prove to him just how abysmally he'd failed. What would happen…if the same thing that had happened to Rosette…happened to John? He didn't think he'd survive it. Nothing would be able to pull him back this time.

Suddenly, nearly choking on the desperate fear that drove his actions, Sherlock turned and wrapped his uninjured arm around John, holding tight and resting his head against him.

"She-Sherlock?" John stuttered, unnerved by the sudden closeness. "What-"

"Don't go," Sherlock begged, not looking up at his friend. "Stay…let me hold you."

"Are you…sure you're not concussed?" John asked, feeling a sudden urge to run his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

"They said not," Sherlock said, his words slightly muffled against John's body. "I'm not going to ask again, John. Just…just let me." He had never held Rosette…never hugged her back. How horribly he regretted that now. He didn't want to regret anything anymore…not with John.

Uncertain whether it was potential brain damage talking…or emotional trauma finally surfacing after years of repression, John finally gave in to the request, crawling into the small bed with his flatmate and curling up with him. He loosely wrapped his own arms around Sherlock's slender frame, while Sherlock felt like he might crush him with his own one-armed grip. They didn't speak, but John thought he could hear Sherlock whispering something. It took him a while, but he eventually made the words out.

"You can't die. You can't die. You can't die. You can't die."

"I won't," John said firmly.

XxX

(A/N) And so it begins. Again, I hope you've enjoyed it and will stick around for the next time.