Fuck, John was tired. He'd spent the better part of the past two weeks working extra hours at the clinic as well as helping Harry repaint her house. His entire body ached and his stupid leg was sending shooting pains up along his spine. He just wanted a long bath and an early night in. He exited the Underground and rounded the corner onto his street and felt a familiar shivery tingle run over his skin. Bloody hell. He walked sedately toward his flat stopping once or twice to adjust a shoe lace and check his phone. Entering the building, he made a show of fiddling with his keys before heading up to his flat. He opened his door and let it close firmly before ducking around the corner and listening to the even tread in the hall. He grimaced as he heard someone fiddle with his door handle. As soon as he heard his lock click over, he rounded the corner and rammed the end of his cane hard into the assailant's kidneys. The taller man dragged him into the flat throwing him roughly into the wall before pulling his fist back. John dropped to the floor and slammed the cane hard into the man's leg and fought a smile at the crack of bone. They grappled on the floor and the man got in a lucky punch to his eye before one final smack to the temple had the man collapsed, unconscious on top of him.
He quickly wriggled out from beneath the girth of the man before running to the closet to hogtie the bastard with an extension cord. He was putting the finishing touches on the knot when he heard a stampede hurtling down his hallway. He was greeted by five SWAT guys kitted out to the teeth with rifles and a slightly nonplussed Mycroft Holmes.
"Evening." John said evenly.
"Oh. Good." Mycroft said, adjusting his tie nervously. "Men, take him away."
John watched dispassionately as the agents took the other man away with little to no regard for his cracked bone. The men were quickly exiting the flat when a set of paramedics came in and began fussing about his quickly bruising eye and busted lip. There were flashlights shone quickly in each eye and his blood pressure and pulse were checked before two ice packs were plastered to his face with a stern look from the elder woman and a command to keep those on for the next twenty minutes. He collapsed on his tiny couch before turning to the government official and asking finally,
"So who exactly did I just have a row with in the middle of the night?"
"That was Sebastian Moran." Mycroft said blandly. "Moriarty's number two."
"Oh." John said quietly. "Not a very good number two, was he?"
"That isn't what people normally say." Mycroft said with a wry grin.
"What do people normally say?" John asked.
"They don't." Mycroft said. "They're often dead."
"Well, now that that's been handled." John sighed. "I think I'm off to bed. You can show yourself out, can't you?"
"Sorry, John." Mycroft said. "We'll just need a quick statement and a look at the security camera."
"Security camera?" John asked. "What camera?"
Mycroft just smirked before the third round of strangers streamed into his flat taking pictures and reaching into lamps and under tables to pull out little bugs and cameras. He was giving a statement to a nondescript Yarder when he heard two people rush down the hall and screech to a halt in his doorway. He felt his heart falter and restart as a mad genius scanned the room before his eyes stopped on John. The doctor rose quickly to his feet unsure as to why his body immediately attempted to fall into a defensive stance as the detective strode up to him and froze him with a heated stare.
"Why aren't you at Baker Street?" Sherlock asked abruptly.
"Hi, Sherlock." John said with a grin. "Welcome to London."
John wasn't an idiot. He was very aware of everyone else quickly exiting his studio flat and saw Lestrade literally drag his partner out the door before shutting it firmly.
"Why?" Sherlock asked a bit ruffled.
"It wasn't my flat." John shrugged. "It was yours."
"It was ours." Sherlock huffed. "If it was about the money, Mycroft would have been more than happy to cover my share of the rent."
"It wasn't the money." John sighed moving to the kitchen to turn the kettle on.
"Then what?" Sherlock asked confused.
"It's nothing." John hedged.
"Tell me." Sherlock demanded attempting to corner him against the cabinets.
"I didn't belong there." John said quietly, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. He grappled around in the silence that followed his statement trying to find the proper words. "You didn't need me, Sherlock. And that's fine, but with you not at Baker Street, there was no reason for me to stay. You'd obviously decided that you'd rather go it alone and that I wasn't necessary, so I didn't think you'd want me to be there when you got back."
"Why would you think that?" Sherlock asked.
"Why would I not?" John said, feeling bitterness settle in his gut. "What evidence did I have to refute that theory? You buggered off without so much as a goodbye."
"The letter…" Sherlock began.
"Yes, a letter that you sent two and a half years after you left." John countered. "I've lived in this flat for that same amount of time. The letter was good. It was informative. Thanks, but that doesn't change the fact that you never had enough respect for me to let me make my own choices."
"I explained…" Sherlock tried again.
"That you assumed that I would be just so chuffed at the idea of you deigning to associate with me that I would wait for YEARS for some return that couldn't ever be guaranteed because you thought I was under the impression that you'd died. The bastard was right after all. You did see me like some pet, didn't you? You could just hand me off to some nice couple so that you could scamper off on your ideal vacation and expect me to still be your property when you got back."
"That wasn't it at all." Sherlock said finally getting just as angry as John.
"Then what was it exactly?" John bit out.
"It nearly killed me!" Sherlock shouted. "You were wearing a bomb for fuck's sake! And it was my fault. I panicked. I ran and left you behind, not because I didn't need you, but because the idea of you dead made me so sick I could barely stop dry heaving at the hospital. Every one of those scars is my fault and I didn't want you to hate me because of it."
"Sherlock…" John ventured as the silence stretched between them as the taller man stepped forward practically looming over the doctor and trapping him against the wall.
"John, please…" Sherlock said dropping his head onto the doctor's shoulder. "Please don't send me away."
"It's late." John said feeling his emotions get torn to shreds. "And I'm completely knackered. Let's just get some sleep. We'll talk about this in the morning."
The hitched sigh from the detective nearly shattered John's heart and he barely had enough room to get changed into pajamas bottoms with Sherlock hovering over him.
"You can sleep on the bed if you want." John said awkwardly. "I'll take the couch."
Sherlock didn't reply but quickly stripped down to his pants and pulled John down onto the bed with him wrapping him up in his arms and blankets. He nuzzled into John's neck and his breath tickled John's throat as he pulled him closer. John let the warmth and closeness steal the rest of the tension from his limbs and he dropped into sleep quickly with a hazy memory of lips kissing his pulse point lightly.
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"You're hiding?" Lestrade asked aghast.
"Not exactly." John huffed. "I really did have to work this morning and then Donovan invited me out to celebrate you coming back to Scotland Yard."
"How the bloody hell did she know?" Lestrade asked. "This whole thing just ended yesterday."
"Mycroft sent out an e-vite." John said.
"That man." Lestrade said, unable to keep back the grin on his face. "So you left Sherlock in your apartment."
"Well, he was still sleeping." John sighed. "I left a note. I'm surprised he didn't wake up with how long it took me to wriggle out of his grip."
Lestrade spat beer across the pub and coughed roughly. "You slept with Sherlock!"
"No," John said firmly. "I mean, we didn't sleep together. We just sort of slept in the same bed."
"I'm sorry, but I have to ask." Lestrade sighed. "What were you two three years ago? I mean, was sleeping in the same bed normal?"
"It…happened before…" John said awkwardly. "I mean…sometimes when we were too knackered to give a fuck or we didn't want to pay for separate rooms and ended up in a single bed hotel room. It wasn't precisely an everyday occurrence but it did happen fairly regularly. Plus, he would sort of stick around if he had to wake me up from a nightmare."
"Oh, John." Lestrade sighed.
"I know." He answered dejected. "I am completely screwed."
"Do you know what I think?" Lestrade said.
"Please feel free to comment on my completely ridiculous life." John said resting his forehead on the table.
"I think that you two are far greater together than apart." Lestrade said. "And that doesn't mean I think you're dependent on one another, just that you two complement each other."
"And I should just forget the past three years then?" John asked. "You're the one who told me to move on."
"No, don't forget them." Lestrade said. "Let them make you stronger. Both of you love a challenge, let that adversity make you stronger."
Lestrade smiled as John pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text before his ears flushed a deep red and finishing off his pint. The return ping made the blush spread to his whole face and he saluted his friend before heading out of the pub. Lestrade glanced around the pub as his Yarders streamed into the pub to congratulate him on his return. They spent hours laughing and drinking and bullshitting with each other and Lestrade had never felt surer of his chosen career than right now. Despite the hours and the fatigue and the emotional toll, he couldn't imagine a more perfect job. It was hours later and he was settling the tab and feeling a bit low that Mycroft hadn't stopped in when he saw a familiar black car parked in front of the pub. He grinned and waved goodbye to the few stragglers before wrapping his coat around himself and darting out to slide onto the cool leather seats.
"Hello, My." Lestrade said with a grin before kissing him lightly on the lips.
"Geoffrey." Mycroft said, resting his hand lightly on Lestrade's knee as the car pulled away.
"Where are we off to?" Lestrade asked. "Ikea?"
"Best two out of three." Mycroft huffed. "I'm sure I'll win next time."
"You can try, but come on." Lestrade smiled. "I'm irresistible."
"Of that I am definitely aware." Mycroft smirked. "I thought I'd give you a lift home considering you have work tomorrow."
"I don't start back at the Yard until next Thursday." Lestrade said confused.
"Oh, I'm sorry." Mycroft said happily. "I meant that we have work tomorrow and into the extended weekend as well. It turns out that I also miraculously have six days off. How very convenient."
"Really?" Lestrade said unable to keep the grin off his face. "And what sort of work did you have in mind?"
"I'm sure we'll find something productive to do." Mycroft smiled.
"Indeed." Lestrade said silkily.
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