That John hadn't been able to meet with Moriarty hadn't been a surprise to John, he couldn't expect the madman to lay sleeping all the time, just waiting for him. John wouldn't try it again anyway, now he had an order to go. Tonight, tonight he'll reach for Moriarty in earnest.

It was a good day, Sherlock was drunk on his victory over the stairs and ordered tea and hobnobs for all and assorted. They laughed and watched James Bond Sherlock taking turn to throw popcorn with extreme abandon at the screen, "That's not how a car blows up!"

That night John woke up to the sound of… something.

There was the sound of Sherlock sleeping above him. It was dark under Sherlock's bed, and the room seemed still, but his body hummed. When he peered over his shoulder there were two feet in the doorway. There wasn't a lot of room under a bed, but he managed to shift himself, concerned.

John was naturally concerned, he couldn't see up past he man's knee but –

The sound of gun, gun in the bedroomcocking-

A soft sound like the lulling mating call of some lonely beetle-

How dare he, how dare he in the-

Sherlock

SHERLOCK-

pro(it makes the sound of a soft pop when it snaps)tect the Sherlock-

"John! John! Stop he's dead!"

"What?" John looked over his shoulder at Sherlock who was sitting up in bed, hair curling everywhere.

"Everything is fine John, I'm safe."

John looked down; he was sitting on the chest of a man in dark clothing whose head is tilted up, like he's trying to look away from John at an unnatural angle. Dead, the man was dead. His jaw has been shattered at its point of conjunction with the skull, like someone had pressed down too hard with their thumb and there was the faint shadow of contusions along his chest and shoulders. John stumbled back and away. Sherlock was there, long arms around him, "Are you okay?"

"What?"

"Are you okay? You look… that is to say, you don't look yourself."

"I'm fine, its fine."

There was a squeeze once, tight, and John suddenly felt better. "Go into the living room and lay down on the sofa for a while, I'll take care of this."

John nodded; only stopping to stamp once, insanely on the wrist gripping the gun with the silencer attached obscenely to it and kicked the gun away. So much for getting Moriarty tonight.

"I'm safe John, it's alright."

"It was such a good day too," John said mournfully.

The next day Sherlock was on edge, he put on a patch and ripped it off with dismay ten minutes later, "I seem to have lost my addiction to nicotine."

John rolled his eyes at that, "Well that's just too bad."

Narrowed eyes were the only reply Sherlock dignified that with.

"Oh don't go into a strop."

"Hmm," he said and rolled to face the wall, as if he would ever to anything as undignified as climbing over coffee tables or shooting holes in walls or threaten to beat Anderson to death with a spatula. When John hadn't responded immediately to Sherlock's fit of dramatics one blue gray eye peered at him.

"Yes?"

"John."

John waited.

"John come here, I'm going to ask you questions now."

He blinked for a moment and put down his paper in favor of climbing onto the foot of the sofa, shifting Sherlock's feet so he could sit cross legged facing him. He had no reason not to trust him with the truth. This was part of their life now. "Short or long first?"

"Short, I can question you at length," his hands steepled in front of his face. The healthy flush was leaving him; John would have to hunt again soon. "You spoke of dreams, how is it that you enter them?"

Straight down to business then, John grinned.

"Well, I need a name, a real name, a full name. Once I have that I go to sleep and appear in their dream, in the dream I find them, I claim the heart on your behalf and use my totem to separate the heart from them."

"Your totem?" eyebrow up.

"I can't tell." He would if he could, and knowing Sherlock, he'll figure it soon anyway. "Once you know, you can't tell either."

"Once I know?"

"Iraq or Afghanistan?" John quipped back.

"Of course. Is it easy then?"

John gave him a look.

"Alright," he opens his mouth to ask the next question just as there's a knock on the door. Sherlock goes tense all over and looks over at it with large eyes. He looks so like a child.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson said through the door. She doesn't come into the flat anymore, but she'll leave biscuits on their doorstep.

"It's okay Sherlock; it's just Mrs. Hudson again."

"Of course," Sherlock snaps at him, "who else would it be?" But Sherlock is distraught, John can tell immediately, so when their much anticipated interview is cut short by a demand for tea he doesn't think to question why.

John was upstairs changing when he hears the knock at the door; it was loud, like someone has put their whole fist into it. Like someone was furious. He started to call down to Sherlock that he'll be down to get the door in a mo, just let him zip his fly when he heard the door open. It was a stupid thing for Sherlock to do, very stupid, no one knows yet. They haven't come up with the brilliant reintroduction into society yet. He's trying to think of necessary damage control he'll have to do with whoever saw a supposedly dead man but there was no shout of shock, no stammer. Only silence and of course the one day he needed to get downstairs his zipper was on strike.

"You- You came," Sherlock voice floated softly through the cracked door of John's room. "I mean I was wondering when-" and then he said "umph."

Something was wrong.

John found himself downstairs before he quite knew how he got there.

Mycroft Holmes was standing in their living room.

"All this time, all this time," he hissed at his brother. "You selfish little child."

Mycroft raised his hand; John saw the tension starting the hand flattening for a slap and Sherlock got so far as shouting, "Mycroft! Don't-" when John charged. Mycroft hit the wall with a force that made the whole house rattle in offense. He had the British Government a foot off the ground, his neck curled back as he growled low in his throat.

Enemy.

Enemy in the den.

How dare it.

How dare it.

HOW DARE IT RAISE A HAND

Stop it.

Stop the enemy.

Rip it up.

Rip it up.

Keep the Sherlock safe.

"Sweet Merciful-" the enemy said, it started reaching blindly for something, hands reaching frantically.

"John," said a voice, the voice and John's head cocked toward it. "It's fine John. It's all fine."

John knows its fine, the enemy has been neutralized. He likes the voice though; he doesn't feel so ugly in his eyes and in his teeth anymore. It was alright.

Warm long fingers land on the top of his scalp and slowly trace downward to the base of his skull. Long fingers moved over his head, over his short hair, smoothing it down. It feels warm and good and comfortable. He liked to feel Sherlock's warm living (living living living living) palm against his scalp, over his ears. Sherlock's hand was trembling wildly, but it's there. It was there and that was what mattered, "Put Mycroft down John, he's not a threat."

He jerked his head back to the enemy archenemy (the Mycroft) pinned to the wall, the growling gone soft and ponderous.

"He's our friend John. It's okay," the voice was deep and calm and lulling. It just got deeper and calmer and lulling-er. "Mycroft is our friend. He loves me."

One hand, the hand not on John's head reached out and pressed against Mycroft, "Mycroft," the voice, the good voice, the word was very slow. "Mycroft. Are you not. My. Friend?"

The enemy (Mycroft) gasped slowly his ribs struggling against the pressure John was putting on them.

"Mycroft."

"Yes, of course," Mycroft said. "You're my brother. I thought I was going to break apart when you… when I thought you were dead. You're my baby brother!"

"It's okay John," Sherlock said softly, his hand moving over where John was holding Mycroft. "Let's put Mycroft down."

John set him down gently and stepped back.

There was a crack in the wall.

"My left shoulders out of place," Mycroft said conversationally. "And I might have a concussion."

"I hope you don't have any men coming because that would be a rather bad idea right now," the voice was good and soft and John was shivering a little. He's turned gently and pulled close so he can turn his head and listen to Sherlock's hearts. It was a nice sound. "Keep your voice soft, isn't that right John?" said the voice above him. "Keep it soft and gentle and he'll come out of it. It's fine. It's all fine. It's alright."

He could feel the warm good voice through Sherlock sternum.

"Go sit down Mycroft; we'll just be a second here."

"I'm not going to-"

"Shut up, Mycroft," the voice said, still soothing.

"Sherlock," John said in his usual mixture of good humor and mild annoyance. "That's rude; don't tell your brother to shut up."

Sherlock gave him a tight little squeeze and let out a hysterical little laugh, "Oh John. No, I wouldn't want to be rude."