John helped Sherlock into bed again, leaning back in a mess of pillows like a lazy prince and smiled so happily it was almost possible to miss those big redblack holes that should be eyes. He plodded pleasantly to the kitchen and put on the kettle.

These were the things John was unaware of because Sherlock made sure he was unaware of them:

Sherlock nearly had a panic attack. Calm yourself, don't be pedestrian. Reason not madness, you need reason not madness. OhJohn.

Sherlock tried to decide whether or not he was currently dead and in hell. No way of telling, but there's no torment here except the notJohnness of this John, except it is only that face that face but the Johnness is there, it is identifiable, there is data. There is evidence. Evidence of life.

Sherlock tried to decide whether or not this was actually John. John would never. John would never. John would. For me. He's killed to save me before. Face calm like it's his nature, like cell growth and breathing and heartbe-

It is John.

Should Sherlock kil- Stop there. This is John. He's in the kitchen making tea. You can hear him. He cried with relief when he saw you were alive. This is John.

When John returned Sherlock was only looking too pale and laid out, the same lazy prince as before. Not lazy no, those long fingers scrambling out like antennae, weakly, looking for stimulus. One would have thought resurrection would prevent boredom for a few minutes. John had no idea of anything but that Sherlock had been lying in bed.

Sherlock had all sorts of questions, but he was obviously fading, like how he got after he had stayed up too long for a case. John smiled affectionately at him scooting the plate of digestives closer to Sherlock's hip. Sherlock waved that off of course in favor of more questions, John didn't mind that so much. The more Sherlock talked the less its sounds like his voice was about to break at odd moments, he sounded more like himself. "My brain just works differently now," John said not quite apologizing, because there was nothing wrong with the way he was now.

He waved that away, "Anyone can go mad, people do it every day. I want to know about how you…" being at a loss for words was frustrating for him, John could see it in the cross twist of his mouth, "give me those hearts." There was no yawn but Sherlock was slowly paling into a color that looked like bleached bone.

Leaning forward, John braced Sherlock's hand around his cup before it could slip through his fingers onto the duvet, "You're fading Sherlock. I need to go hunting."

"What do you do? With the bodies?" Sherlock asked weakly. Gently John slipped the tea cup out of his hand and put it on the night stand.

"What bodies?"

"Of the people. The hearts John," he said in the tone that tacked on an extra idiot to the end. It gave John a little jolt of happiness. Annoyance too, but mostly happiness. "What do you do with the bodies afterward?"

"Nothing. I go into dreams, I take their hearts there… Sherlock you need to rest. I'll be here when you wake up. I won't leave you, ever."

Sherlock shivered a little at that, fighting to keep his eyes open before exhaustion won out.

John woke to long fingers shaking him; he curled into a knot whimpering.

"John. John! John!" that was an order, a call, his head snapped toward the sound, hands reaching out shaking for something to steady himself with, to find something to fasten him to wakefulness. "What is it John?"

"Moriarty."he sobbed into Sherlock's chest; there were no tears only deep, deep choking… "I have to-" he covered his mouth with one hand and stumble ran into the bathroom.

A little later he sat in the living room with his feet under him and Sherlock panting on the sofa.

"Don't take it too hard," John said softly. Afraid to offend.

"I'm a fit adult male," whinged back. It was like old times and John smiled. "Walking into the living room should not wind me."

"It's nearly been a year; your body is just weak."

"A year!" Sherlock bellowed.

"It took time to gather the names. I have a plan," he brightened, not looking quite as shell shocked as he had after emerging from his latest foray into Moriarty's mind. "We can say you faked your death to go and take down Moriarty's organization. Isn't that a good idea?"

"But I haven't been taking Moriarty's organization down," he waved that off.

"I have," John said. "I told you I've been going into dreams. I need a name to claim a heart, but I didn't have any, so I went into Moriarty's dream to gather the names of his people. So the plan will work, I thought of that."

"You've been going into Moriarty's head? John you idiot."

"Where else could I get names?" John snapped back, it never was a good idea to let Sherlock trod to heavy on him. "It was his fault you left in the first place; he was the one you were chasing after, who pushed you over. He was going to help get you back. And everyone thinks they're safe inside their head, they always think they'll be safe there. He hasn't found me out all this time, not till last night. He thinks he's so clever, so brilliant, that he can fix any problem. Well, he's not, he's prey. The brighter he burns the better I can find him. He can run until his bones are scrapping the ground, but when he closes his eyes his throat is in my teeth."

"John," Sherlock said in a very small voice from the sofa. Thready, thin, slipping weakly from his lips to asphyxiate in the air like a small fish. He had sunk down into the sofa with a child's large eyes.

John was kneeling by him in an instant, holding one long wrist to check his pulse. "Are you alright Sherlock? Are you feeling sick?" One hand curled gently, like the hand of a comforting mother, around Sherlock's, "Are you alright?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and twitched back and forth, "Oh. Oh. For me really, really for me. Just myself. That's why. Oh.Of course, you'd never… Not just for… I thought you were you, but you really are you!"

John felt Sherlock's forehead for fever, dark eyes pulling in concern, "Do you feel dizzy Sherlock or-"

"I'm brilliant John," Sherlock smiled at him, it was small but real. "You really care for me, what a great monstrous love you've thrown about my neck. Not that I've very good with these sorts of things. Perhaps if I was…" the smile slid slightly toward the cunning pleased-with-self smirk that Sherlock got sometimes when he was basking in his superiority. "But no, sociopathy apparently has its benefits. It's settled then, everything is settled."

"Sherlock, you're not making any sense." He didn't seem to be running a fever, but it could be exhaustion or hunger or any number of things.

"Tea please," Sherlock said. "And your laptop."

Good. Good.

Back to normal.

John snapped to, "Why don't you use your own?" he whinged, even while moving to get his laptop off the desk.

Back to normal.

The wall by the sofa was flocked with fluttering post-its, like birds wings, scrawled across loosely in Sherlock's writing, like he had tossed long italicized leashes around their necks.

"John," he held out one hand and John was there ready to offer support. "I want to go up the stairs this time. I'm going to make it to the top today." Brushing John aside with a spattering of fingertips against the shoulder of his jumper, Sherlock stood himself up again, "I can walk by myself, I'm not a child, just be nearby." As much as he might complain, he preferred it when Sherlock was a little harsh; John knew he didn't mean anything by it. It was better for Sherlock to be a little rude, a little abrasive, than to have him weakly murmuring platitudes. It worried John terribly to have him too nice.

"Up the stairs we go then," John said cheerfully. Sherlock had been increasingly adventurous in wandering about the flat, waking up old muscles. After a day that was too quiet, on a day where John got suspicious John would slide under Sherlock's bed and sleep there to be sure that Sherlock wouldn't get over confident again and fall against something less forgiving than a stuffed badger. Or that rather, if he did John would be there to fix the necessary damage promptly. He'd had to clean and dust a bit underneath the bed, but he fit there very nicely.

He liked the cozy dark.

So as not to displease the finicky twist Sherlock got when one of his personal goals was waylaid, John trod slowly behind him instead of offering him his shoulder. He was in no rush at all. They reached the first landing where Sherlock leaned a hip against a wall, panting lightly through his victorious grin, "Mycroft doesn't know."

"What?" John blinked back.

"Mycroft doesn't know that I'm alive, about you and waking me up."

"No," John frowned. "I wasn't sure he'd understand, that he might try and take you away."

Disengaging from the wall, Sherlock stepped forward triumphantly to grip the banister, "Nine more steps."

Half way up, Sherlock's foot slipped and he fell backward and John's hand lifted, and all that was supporting Sherlock's weight was the ball one of one bare foot, long toes gripping the dark stair runner and John's splayed hand over the center of his spine. Arms out loose, like those of a martyred saint Sherlock showed no distress in the fact the only thing tying him to earth (and preventing an uncomfortable reintroduction to it) was one pale foot and John's hand. John was too far back, he had to lean forward for the catch and now he was trapped too, holding Sherlock up until the man deigned to find a third means of support.

Later John will consider that although Sherlock genuinely wanted to master the stairs, that this moment, with the two of them leaning together was planned.

"John, I don't want you to go into Moriarty's mind anymore," Sherlock said softly, absently, like he was in a sort of daze. The hand over his spine remained steady. Because he was a few steps above John, John looked up at the back of Sherlock's curly head and felt like he was in an Escher drawing.

"What?"

"No more, I'll find you someone else, a different criminal overlord."

"But he's easy, he's an enemy and I'm very careful."

"John," Sherlock said far away, but firm in what he was saying. Like he was trying to tell John something very important underwater. "He is not a nice person. He is not well. I want you to stay away from him."

"Why?" John hated how his voice broke, anguish spilling over his lips. "So you can leave me alone again?"

"I can honestly tell you I'm terrified of the thought of you being left alone. Of you being by yourself. Leaving has been removed from the table, so to speak. I don't want him anywhere near you. Please John, no more. The thought you in his head is unpleasant."

"I haven't even been in his head for the past week, I tried a couple times, but we're not always asleep at-"

"John." Sherlock interrupted.

"I have to," John interrupted right back, "this is how it works. I started the hunt, I have to finish it."

"Fine, then finish it quickly. Kill him and be done."

"He has so many names though; we could still use him…."

"Bring me his heart," ordered the voice and a shiver went through John.

"Yes."

"Very good," Sherlock said gently, one long hand reached out and looped around the banister enough so that John could push forward enough to get him on his feet again. "To the top of the stairs then."

Sebastian didn't like this, not at all. Everything was wrong, his back was up, he could feel danger moving over him like the eye of an enemy sniper. This was not how the Boss worked, how he acted. Not the boss who shammed it up that he was so sweet and defenseless, but had his hand wrist deep in everyone's guts before they realized it.

"It has to do with sleep somehow," Boss said, shivering with exhaustion and caffeine.

Sebastian was looking at his Boss, brilliant razor sharp, better than twelve tigers and for the first time in his life felt pity. It was terrifying, disorienting, to have your God made into man, to have someone take a hammer to your idol.

"Are you crying?"

Everything was swept off the Boss' desk with the sharp movement of one arm, before he stumbled and almost fell. Sebastian kept him upright, just barely, there were two minions in with them (that's what the Boss called them, his little minions) and Sebastian shot them both, center of the head, for seeing the Boss cry.

He jiggled the Boss' chin gently in his hand. "Boss, Boss, Boss. James."

Boss blinked awake and cracked a fist across Sebastian's face. People underestimated his size all the time, the Boss was small, but he was well trained and mean. "Good Moran. Keep me awake. I need to figure out how he's doing it."

"He?" he was nursing his jaw.

"Sherlock Holmes. He has to be involved, he's alive somewhere. He has to be. Oh, it had a face, a face like a fire burning, the whole world like a coal." Hands, small, pale and strong kneaded his arm like a restless cat, "He's not going to beat me at this game."

"Tell me what you want to do. Just give me your orders."

The dry laugh he got back scraped him a little. "Really, Sebastian."

"Let's be honest, you haven't slept for fourteen days and have ingested four times your body weight in coffee, you're half my size and you've already calculated how different ways there are to kill me without sitting up. I'm not an idiot."

"Twenty seven," the Boss snarled at him.

"I am, as ever, terrified of you and awaiting your orders." It was true, nothing was more true.

"Blood. Rivers and rivers of blood. I'm going to bathe in it."