Sherlock and John walked into the sparse but clean studio flat, each tossing their bags down onto a bed in unison. They had shared rooms for cases so many times that it was understood without discussion that Sherlock would prefer to bed by the window, and John would prefer to be by the bathroom. Although tired, John wandered over to the small kitchenette in search of the makings of tea. He filled and switched on a kettle and hoped that the tea he found in the cupboard was not older than him.

Sherlock was, of course, not planning on sleeping, but he did kick off his shoes and remove his coat and jacket before propping himself up against the headboard of his narrow bed and firing up his laptop. As tired as John was, he felt like he would need a good while to wind down from the events and mind-blowing revelations of the day.

John didn't ask Sherlock if he cared for a cuppa. He just made him one. John placed the cup on the nightstand next to Sherlock's bed and cleared his throat to call attention to it. Sherlock reached for it without even looking up at John. Just as John was thinking that he could most likely count on Sherlock not talking at all tonight, the consulting detective spoke up.

"You didn't tell them the whole truth about your run in with the weevil in Afghanistan. There is more to the story." said Sherlock. It was not a question. But it was a prompt. That was Sherlock asking for the rest of the story, or at least asking for the confirmation of the theory or multiple theories that were floating around in the giant brain of his.

John paused in his progress towards his bed but then continued on. He took his time toeing off his own shoes and settled in against his headboard just has Sherlock had. He took a sip of his tea. John could feel Sherlock's gaze from the side. But, uncharacteristically, Sherlock was being very patient. John set his tea cup down on the bedside table with a resolute clink.

"Well as I said earlier, you were right about the weevil being there when I was shot. I was hit by a sniper when out in the open trying to pack the wound of a soldier with half his belly blown apart. When I went down, another guy dragged me away from him into the partial shelter of a bombed out house. I was bleeding a lot. I could smell my own hot blood in the air. But then I smelt something else. It was like decay and hunger all rolled into one. Then that thing crept out of the shadows. It stalked on all fours towards me. Even if I could bring myself to scream the firefight outside was so loud, no one would have heard me. It crept closer and closer and I...I did nothing. I was frozen in fear." John's voice quaked but Sherlock said nothing.

"It reached me and grabbed me around my left knee. It started pulling me into the shadows. I looked back behind me to see if any of the other guys were coming back. I saw two more of them fallen out in the street and my own trail of blood dragging out behind me. I finally kind of snapped into motion. I couldn't shake him off my leg. His grip was like a vice. Finally it clicked in my head that I still had my pistol with me. It was on my left of course and my arm wasn't cooperating too well but I finally got it out and unloaded the remainder of my clip into that thing's chest at nearly point blank range. It staggered back and screamed but it didn't go down. I knew I was out of amo. It looked at me with its head tipped. I could tell it was trying to decide if I was worth the trouble. That's when I thought it. That's when I thought 'please God, let me live.' Then I raised my gun back at him and did my best to act like it wasn't empty. Luckily, he decided to not call my bluff. He slinked back off into the darkness."

John took up his cup of tea again. If Sherlock noticed that it shook in his hand, which of course he did, he didn't mention it. Sherlock took up his own cup as well.

"They keep a lot of secrets" said Sherlock some time later. John, at that point, had already changed into his bed clothes and was preparing to settle in for the night.

"Well, yeah. Aliens, rift in space and time, bloody flying dinosaur…"

John was cut off by a dismissive hand wave from the consulting detective.

"From each other, John. They keep so very many secrets from each other there."

"Oh? Anything interesting then?" John asked with a yawn.

"Nothing too interesting by my standards. But my point is that they experience all these fantastic things together, and they keep so much from the world, and yet they still fall into the terribly mundane human habit of keeping secrets from one another." Sherlock replied. He slid down on the headboard on the thin pillow. Although fully clothed, John noted inwardly, at least he might fall of to sleep for a bit in that position.

John was surprised when Sherlock's voice shook him from near-sleep a few minutes later.

"I didn't use to get high you know. It was never about recreation. The cocaine acted like a chemical balancer for me. When I was racing too fast, taking too much in at once, it made my mind a fine laser. And when I was drowning in the grey time in between puzzles, it kept me from going crazy. At least it was that way for my mind. But this damnable transport had different ideas. There was the sickness, the physical craving that took hold. I had to start using just to feel normal. I played with different strains and different mixtures to try to get a hold of the usefulness again but I knew I was chasing something that was long out of my reach."

John was wide awake. He laid on his back in the bed but he turned to face Sherlock. Sherlock spoke impassively, eyes straight ahead.

"Finally, I had no choice but to go to Mycroft for help" Sherlock spat out. "He wanted me to go to rehab, but I knew the proximity to others would just drive me more crazy. So that's how I ended up at the family home in the country with hired nurses and doctors, glorified babysitters. That's how I missed the cybermen."

"Not that I am complaining, but why are you telling me this? Why now, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to face John finally. The intensity of it was unnerving, but not in the direction of discomfort. It set off a warmth blooming in John's chest.

"I don't wish for us to keep secrets from one another. I think we're past that, don't you?"

John allowed the glow within him to show through his smile. "Yeah. That sounds brilliant."

Sherlock smiled back.

Although far from Baker Street, John felt perfectly at home at the moment. He fell asleep as soon as he closed his eyes. The weevil that so often haunted his dreams did not come to visit that night.

Thanks so much for your patience in my getting this next installment posted. I have been doing a lot of other writing lately, which is good, but I do miss the Hub. Sorry this is an all Sherlock/John chapter. It just seemed to work out that way. Please do leave a review if you feel so moved to do so. They absolutely make my day. Thanks!