A/N: Sorry this took so long. Had a bit of a hard Christmas, and then exams. Thank you all for your reviews! Only one more to go

Three days later Sherlock curled around John in bed the doctors blearily peered out at him from between his eyelashes. (Normally John would close his eyes and be out like a light...until the nightmares came back of course.) For a moment Sherlock considered that John didn't want him to cling to him like he had every night they had slept in the same bed. Then he discarded the idea because John had never complained before so obviously this was about something else. He raised himself upwards on his elbow peering down at John. The doctor opened his eyes fully, a sad twinge to the corner of his mouth. Sherlock could feel his breath on his naked chest. He shivered.

"I don't want Harry to meet with our parents." Sherlock said nothing. "They have already hurt her enough...I know she is strong but she shouldn't have to go through that kind of rejection again."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Harry was very important to John, he knew that. If Harry being rejected made John feel sad then that made it Sherlock's job to make sure she was happy. He didn't say anything again and John sighed reaching up with his hand and pushing it through Sherlock's wild tangled hair to wrap around the back of his neck.

"But she wants this...I want them to understand... I just want things to be simple because it is really, I love you, you love me, and we are getting married. That's it. Easy. It doesn't matter what they do right? Because we have faced much much worse and Harry will always have me so even if they come here and fuck it up again its water off a ducks back right?"

Sherlock leant back into Johns hand and the doctor sighed, thumb rubbing against Sherlock's skin. After a moment the detective leant forwards and pressed a soft kiss to Johns lips because something in the back of his mind told him it would be a good idea. John kissed him back and when Sherlock slumped back onto his chest a tiny smile appeared on his face. Sherlock smiled too running his hand down John's side to rest at his waist.

"Goodnight John."

"Goodnight Sherlock."

The next morning John waited for Sherlock to shower and get dressed before he took Sherlock to his appointment with Barrows. John had sent Lestrade away when he had appeared, fuming, at the flat. He had told him to bring the two American detectives to the flat later that evening and that Sherlock would have the murderer ready for them. The detective had grabbed John and kissed him passionately after hearing what his fiancé had done.

He didn't feel like kissing him right now.

He was curled in the corner of a cab on his way to the appointment, the doctor texting Harry about their parents visit. Sherlock had fired off a text as they had left the flat but regretted it now. He still had a case to solve; he didn't have time to waste preoccupying his mind with his worry and fear. The closer the got to the office the sicker Sherlock felt. He just knew Barrows wouldn't have forgotten about Sherlock's last visit, about the question that remained unanswered.

He was proven correct; in fact it was the first thing the damn man asked. "So Sherlock, last time we were here our appointment was interrupted so I thought we could pick up where we left off. Is there something about the wedding that frightens you?"

Sherlock groaned and ran a hand over his face his long limbs spread out over the sofa so his heels crossed high above his head on the back rest and his arm lay behind supporting his neck on the cushions. He considered denying it at first but the relief on Johns face when Sherlock had asked to see Barrows again kept cluttering up his mind and he hated it but he needed to get better for John.

"John is not safe with me. I have dreams...nightmares in which he dies."

"He dies? And these dreams... what are you doing in them when John dies."

Sherlock closed his eyes the images coming at him in full force, the swelling in his chest as he walked towards John, the music filling the airy bright room and his fiancés smile, so handsome in his army best. "I'm walking up the aisle."

"Mhmm and then what happens?"

The music is stopping now, its silent except for the sound of his own breathing and Sherlock knows what's coming next, what had come next every time he closed his eyes since Moriartys visit. He doesn't so much as hear the shot as he feels it, a kick to his stomach and Johns shocked expression, the pain flickering across his face as he crumpled to the floor. Landing on one knee with one hand holding him up the other clutched to his chest, pulling away to reveal sticky vibrant red blood coating his hand. John's eyes go wide and they flicker from the image of his own palm covered in his blood to Sherlock and he feels himself shiver. All eyes are on him now, accusing stares and Sherlock runs forwards skidding on his knees so he is close to his lover but when he goes to reach out his own hands are also covered in Johns blood and the pain in his chest is all consuming and he tries to speak to apologise but it is too late and Johns eyes are unfocussed and his skin is cold and when Sherlock reaches up to touch his face it goes black.

"John is murdered."

"Murdered by whom?"

"By my enemies."

"Any enemy in particular? Moriarty? Or Bossley perhaps?"

Sherlock sucked in a breath and flung his legs over the edge to plant his feet on Barrows coffee table. He decided not to mention Bossley's reappearance."Bossley is not my concern anymore; he should be running right now. It is the logical thing to do."

"And why should he be running?"

"Because Moriarty will be after him, he is jealous of Bossley and so he would want him taken care of."

"It's what any sane person would do."

"Exactly."

"Except from what you have told me Bossley is not sane Sherlock, he is driven mad by his hatred for you and deep down you know that. You know that there is a possibility that he isn't running at all, that he is still out there hunting you."

His stomach was turning and Sherlock's eyes flickered around the room to the placement of the windows and the doorway and how he seemed to have placed himself in the furthest portion of the couch, the safest point in the room. He tasted the bitterness in his throat and retched and Barrows leant forwards placing a hand on his knee. Oddly that served to calm him slightly as Sherlock's entire brain focussed on that point in that second and he flinched away, wild eyes coming to rest on his therapists face and calm even expression.

"I see that you have been suffering from a lot of stress recently and until you learn that you cannot control what Bossley does and learn to accept that you cannot protect John then you cannot work effectively again. You do understand that don't you?"

"I am afraid."

"Yes."

"I need to dispel Bossley from my mind or I will not be able to carry on."

"Yes Sherlock. Do you believe that is all that is affecting you?"

Sherlock said nothing. His thoughts oddly went to that terrifying moment between Moran and Moriarty and Barrows frowned, waiting patiently.

"No."

The buzzer went off on Barrows phone jolting Sherlock from his thoughts and the therapist sighed leaning back in his chair. "You can stay Sherlock. I do not have another appointment until half past."

Sherlock blinked. He got to his feet and Barrows shut his notebook standing to let his patient out. "Okay then, well we can talk about it at your next appointment then. Oh and Sherlock..." He paused at the door reaching out a hand to the detective chest but not touching. "You are making progress. I do think our sessions are helping you. What do you think?"

He didn't know, yes his nightmares has lessened in frequency but that may not have been affected by the sessions however he was more frightened now. More frightened than ever and yet he knew this wasn't Barrows fault and to see Sherlock in therapy seemed to please John.

It was probably best he carried on.

"There is more progress to be made."

Barrows smiled under his moustache and Sherlock nodded as the hand was removed allowing him exit to the waiting room. John jumped to his feet when he heard the door open and he smiled encouragingly at his fiancé. "Hey. You good?"

He just lifted his chin and walked out leaving John to organise his next appointment and make pleasantries with the doctor. Whilst waiting outside Sherlock was offered a cigarette by a man waiting on the cement walkway. He took it, leaning into the man's lighter and taking a long drag. It had been so long since his last cigarette, he found he still relished the nicotine hit. John appeared a few minutes later and didn't even look up when he reached out, plucking the cigarette from between Sherlock's lips and crushing it under his heel without a word. He handed Sherlock his phone.

"You have a text."

"That would be our lead."

"Our lead?"

"The network gave me an address and what appeared to be a password and this is conformation that our killer has been spotted there."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh."

The address led them to a block of flats, and a battered wooden red door six floors up. John clung to Sherlock's arm as they peered carefully around the corner from their position on the stairs. The two flats on either side of the door were boarded up. He suspected they had been purposely bought up by the flats patron. "Follow my lead." He straightened his coat and puffed out his chest striding towards the door. Three sharp raps on the heavy wood and several clicks, knocks and bangs later a dark eyes peered out through a small crack, gaze travelling over Sherlocks face, down his length and then passing over John who stood proudly to Sherlocks side looking to all the world a professional bodyguard.

"What do you want?"

"Lilliputia."

The eye narrowed and the door slammed shut. Sherlock glanced across to John who twitched his eyebrows and he smirked. Turning back the door opened wide and they were invited into the dingy hallway, carpet almost worn bare and an ugly red pattern covered in filth. Sherlock turned up his nose and as they were led into the living room his glanced back to see John freeze in the doorway, bite his lip and then nod his head towards the walkway outside. The detective frowned but John just gestured with his eyes that he should continue before slowly inching his way backwards and out.

Sherlock was led to a grimy grey sofa on which he perched elegantly, leaning back and watching his host carefully. The man was short with a greying buzz cut and a wrinkled sagging face. He seemed confused and anxious and left Sherlock alone in the living room, skirting out to talk to someone in the hallway. When he returned he was followed by a massive man in a black hoody and another slightly shorter man in a stingy greying wife beater.

"What do you want?" The first man spoke first crossing his arms, tiny flickers of his eyes giving away Sherlock's killers position. Sadly it was back through the hallway and the detective would be unable to get past the henchmen unless...no. Judging by the larger mans shoes and the others knuckles he would be jumped on the moment they realised he was a 'civilian'. The detective lifted his chin and sniffed picking lint from his shoulders.

"I am here to do some business boys. I have a friend you see, an American friend who is very near and dear to my heart and I heard you might be the guys to help me find this friend." He made sure to speak mostly to the nervous ringleader, intensifying his gaze with each word noting the change in is breathing at the word 'American'. The killer was definitely here.

The man coughed and began posturing. "Oh yeah? So you think your friend is here do you? How do I know you're actually his friend anyway? You could be anyone."

"You're right I could be. Why don't you ask him?"

He looked towards the door as if expecting the killer to just walk through. The ringleader scoffed and scratched the back of his head. "Nah nah nah mate. Say you ain't his friend then, what if you've got a shooter? What if I bring him in here and you kill him?"

Sherlock gave him a disappointed look. "That would be pretty stupid of me since I am here to help him." He reached into his inner pocket and suddenly a gun and a large somewhat rusty knife appeared in the henchmen's hands. Sherlock raised his right hand palms open and then pulled his other hand from his pocket, holding the crime scene photographs. "Now now boys. I only wanted to show you a little of our friends work, see he was supposed to come here and wait for me and do nothing else but he couldn't help himself. He got stupid and landed us both in trouble."

The ringleader snatched the photos from Sherlocks hands and turned a rather interesting shade of green, throwing them back with as much ferocity. "He...he did that?"

"Yes. This is what he does." Sherlock leant forwards lowering his voice and the three men follow suit. He made sure to lower his voice holding a hand up as if hiding his mouth to convey a secret. "Now you seem pretty smart to me, do you really want somebody capable of such...dirty work here under your roof? Where you sleep at night, alone and exposed?"

The man lent back and their eyes flickered around the room all three sets coming to rest on the doorway. "No. You're right..."

Suddenly there was a loud bang and Johns voice called out in a startled yell. Sherlocks heart leap and before he could think he was up and out of the door running along the walkway to where John lay on the stairs. A cursory glance told him the man must have approached John from behind and had attempted to grab the gun. John had pulled the trigger but his aim had slipped the bullet grazing his thigh and probably lodging in the killer's foot.

There were bloody footprints leading up the stairway and it took just one second for John to give him the nod, he was alright. Sherlock flew up the stairs following the thickening trail until he was at the highest level. He arrived just in time to see the killer duck into a creaking lift. The doors closed just as he reached him and he swore loudly turning on his heel.

He froze.

For a second he thought he saw... no. He was alone up there, just him and the wind.

So he was off again soaring down the stairs, skidding past John who was being helped to his feet by the men from the flat and down, down, down to the pavement.

A car skidded away before he could catch the license plate. He cursed again.

John was laid further up the walkway tying a torquinet torn from the seam of his shirt with the three other men standing around being useless. Sherlock was furious, he had let an idiotic serial killer get away from him too easily and John had been hurt in the process.

This was unacceptable.

The thought, the sickening familiar feeling that he only associated with Bossley lingered in his mind. Was his mind so easily seduced by his own fear that now he was letting it affect him, making him see figures in the wind? His gaze slipped to the doctor's slumped form. He forced the image from his mind.

"John."

The doctor looked up at him and made a tiny groaning noise as he used the banister to pull himself to his feet. Sherlock leant forwards and wrapped a hand around his waist as support but after he had regained his balance John just waved him away.

Sherlock put his hands in his pockets. "Alright?"

"I'm fine. Or at least I will be."

"Right then." He walked past the huddled group and stormed into the flat heading for the room with the open window. The bed was not made, clearly the killer had been asleep when they had arrived, a torn backpack lay in front of the night stand and four empty cans of beer lay scattered around the bed. An ashtray lay on the carpet, clearly having been knocked off the side in the killers haste to get away. The detective grabbed the bag and pulled it open studying the contents before he swung it over his shoulder making his way back out through the flat.

He bumped into a familiar face and a familiar gun drawn in the front doorway. "Lestrade. What are you doing here?"

"I was in the area and heard a gunshot and then I saw you running hell for leather up here. I figured you might be up to something."

"Oh really? That is a shame, sorry to waste your time. If you don't mind I'll just be leaving now." He scooted around the DI but was yanked back by the force of Lestrade grabbing the bag from his shoulder. He tugged back. "Let go."

Lestrade squared his shoulders. "No."

"I said let go."

John limped up to them rolling his eyes."Ladies, please. I am not in the mood. Just let him have the bag would you?"

"What is in it?"

"A man."

"A...a man? " Lestrade recoiled from this news and Sherlock could feel the doctor's eyes boring into the back of his skull. "Oh Jesus, tell me there isn't body parts in here. "

"Who said anything about body parts? No, our killer is in this bag, this is everything he owns in the entire world and everything I need to find him again."

Lestrade let out a groan and wiped a hand over his face. "For god's sake Sherlock." A beep from Lestrade's phone interrupted him and the DI glanced at the screen, sniffing. "Right, I am going to take this bag to the lab and my boys are going to look at it. Then and only then will I let you have it and we are going to work together on this because I do not want those Americans hanging around my department attracting attention. Alright?"

Sherlock glared at him and tightened his grip on the bag strap. John put his hand on Sherlocks wrist and so he looked at him. His eyes were pleading, skin ashen. He was still losing blood. The detective sighed; he was so...sentimental these days. Besides he had everything he needed already. "Fine." He let the bag go and reached out to help support John, pausing as they slowly made their way to the lift. "Oh and Lestrade, do say hello to my brother."

He didn't have to look to know he was right. Keeping tabs on him as always. Bloody Mycroft.

Sherlock paced as John sat in his boxers on the leather sofa, side table pulled up to near his elbow with his emergency medical kit spread wide on top. He was wiping his wound with antiseptic pads and Sherlock couldn't think. Every time he pictured the contents of the bag his eyes would watch Johns hitching breath, the smooth sweep of the cotton swab over his skin and the fierce concentration on his face. He only realised he had been staring when John swung his leg down and tensed the muscles in his thigh, nodding with satisfaction at his handiwork.

The doctor looked up and smirked, an eyebrow rising when Sherlock simply blinked back at him. "When you're done perving on me would you mind grabbing my jeans?" He smirked too and they broke into laughter as the detective grabbed a fresh pair of pants from the bedroom. Jon was packing away his kit as he came back into the living room. "Thanks"

He reached out to take them but Sherlock pulled his hand back a little and he doctor laughed. "Sherlock, give me my jeans."

He grinned. "No."

John crossed his arms. "One final warning. Give them to me."

He took a tiny step back and in one smooth movement the doctor was up on his feet, fingers wrapped around Sherlocks wrist, other hand gripping his lapel. "Fine." His mouth was so close now he could feel Johns breath on his face, his quickened pulse throbbed in his neck, barely inches away and the doctor tone had dropped. Sherlock leant forwards and mumbled his response.

"Fine."

Johns hands came to rest as they moved together clinging to Sherlocks clothes as he cupped the shorter man, holding him close to deepen the kiss.

"Ah so the wound was not deep. I see you are in fact quite well Doctor Watson."

They broke apart but not by much and Sherlock groaned under his breath, he was still concentrating on Johns face on the curve of his lips and the light in his eyes. He didn't want Mycroft to be here, he didn't want him to ruin it. "Go away."

"I can't do that."

"Why? Did Greg call you? Ooh Mycroft go and tell nasty mean Sherlock to let me play."

He let go of John and the doctor coughed clearing his throat. Sherlock twitched his eyebrows at him and the doctor grinned blushing slightly. He began to put his jeans back on and Sherlock turned away, wandering into his lab (Or as Mrs. Hudson liked to call it 'my bloody kitchen'.) without looking at his visitor knowing his brother would follow. When he did finally look at him he was surprised.

"What's going on?"

"What do you mean what's going on?"

"You got dressed up, what is going on?"

Mycroft scoffed but his gaze broke, there was definitely something he wasn't telling him. Well something more than the usual. "Nothing you need to concern yourself with."

Then it hit him, there was only one reason Mycroft would wear that particular suit and...He stepped forwards a little sniffing the air and yes that particular aftershave. Mycroft wanted to impress someone. Oh this was too good. "What was it then? A dinner date? A rushed soiree between meetings?"

Mycroft banged his cane on the floor and glared at his younger sibling. "Enough Sherlock. We are not here to talk about me and my relationships. We are here to talk about your dinner with Mummy. It is after all the day after tomorrow."

He glared. All thoughts of Mycroft's little indiscretions were wiped from his mind because there was no way he was going to that dinner, sitting for hours as Johns parents spouted their rubbish and Mummy looked down on him and the fuss his not eating would cause. Eugh, no he would do without.

"I am not going."

John appeared in the doorway, crossing his arms. "What's that?"

"Sherlock is refusing to go to your dinner with Mummy and your parents John."

"Right, and?"

"I think he really should go, as should you. After all you don't want to leave Harry alone with them."

John puffed out his chest and glared at the older Holmes brother. "Right, well just so you know I was going anyway but I don't see why we should put Sherlock through that. You know he hates dinners."

The doctor glanced to Sherlock and he smiled a little. It was always good when John stood up for him. "John, if your parents are to see that you are serious about this it would be better proven by Sherlock actually being there."

John sighed and looked guiltily at his fiancé. "He has a point."

"John." He didn't even attempt to keep the whine from his voice. John just shook his head, rubbing a hand over his eyes.

"I'm sorry Sherlock but it looks like you are coming too. I don't want to give my parents any ammunition. Is that it? Is that all you wanted? Because if you don't mind I lost quite a bit of blood earlier and would like to have a lie down." John brushed angrily past Mycroft on his way to the bedroom and caught Sherlocks eye when out of sight, indicating he should follow. Mycroft waited for the bedroom door to close before he spoke again.

"Do you want me there?" His voice was low and he would not look his brother in the face. Sherlock didn't know what to do. After an awkward beat he put his hands on his hips and looked up from the floor.

"No."

"Are you sure?"

Sherlocks thoughts went back to his childhood, to a time when his only protector was his prefect brother, the one with the power to sort out the bullies the one with the power to defend him from Mummy. The only one who guarded him and looked after him.

He looked at his brother and his brother looked back at him, his gaze turning from caution to understanding. A ringing noise and Mycroft swept his phone from his pocket, looking away from his younger sibling and down at the screen.

Sherlock made sure he wasn't there when he looked back.

John was sat on the edge of the bed staring out of the window. Sherlock sat next to him. "I don't like dinners."

John sighed and slumped. "I know."

"Do I have to?"

John looked at him. "No you don't have to."

"But..."

"But I really want you there. As much as I hate to admit it your brother has a point."

"And..."

John laughed and leant against his fiancés arm. "And I want you to come."

"Fine."

"That's it then? You're coming?"

Sherlock got to his feet. "Yes. Keep Mycroft busy I have work to do."

John shook his head grinning.

He was huddled in the doorway of a seedy pub, sheltering from the wind and the fierce rain as the streetlights came on. The killer was across the street. He had no idea Sherlock had been following him for two days. Two days of no sleep, barely any food and the constant pressure that he would lose his killer again.

That his demons would have beaten him.

Not that he could have slept if he wanted too. Every time he closed his eyes the feeling would return and he would be unable to keep them closed. Every other face was Bossley's and every movement in the corner of his eye was a gun or a knife in the hands of a revenge fuelled psychopath.

Sherlocks phone beeped in his pocket. Another text from John.

You said you would come to this dinner for me Sherlock. Where are you? Are you safe? JWx

He didn't text back because a moment later the killer hobbled from the shop doorway and clasping his plastic bag close to his chest he ran for the underground entrance. He never got that far. Sherlock was after him like a shot and when the killer sensed him behind he picked up speed. (Impressive considering the damage done to his foot.) Unfortunately Sherlocks attack was blocked by a van pulling out from an alleyway and when he got around it the killer was already at the top of the stairs.

There was nothing for it.

Sherlock leapt forwards tackling the man sending them both rolling and bumping down the stairs to the empty underground below. The detective lay winded for a second before he noticed the killer scrabbling for a knife that must have fallen from his pocket and Sherlock slipped over the damp floor, scrabbling and fighting to get there first. The killer reached out and grabbed him by the collar yanking him back and Sherlock kicked him hard in the stomach rolling over the other man and reaching for the blade. An arm appeared around his chest and flung him sideways.

A triumphant grunt sounded as Sherlock skidded to a halt and he leant up on his elbows to see the killer advancing on him with his weapon.

By the time the police had been called and Lestrade had arrived on scene Sherlock was covered in blood and dirt and was soaked to the bone. "What the hell are you doing here? I thought you had a dinner to go to!"

Sherlock sniffed and looked away from him to the American detectives who where staring at him like he was the beast from the blue lagoon, huddled under a shared umbrella.

"Your killer gentlemen."

He swept a hand out indicating the heavily breathing murderer lying wounded against the wall and elegantly tiptoed around Lestrade leaning in with a whisper. "What car did you come here in?"

"Mine! Sherlock what have you done to him?"

"Nothing too bad. Just a few minor bumps and scrapes. I'll need a lift."

Lestrade put both hands to his head and groaned. "Go just...wait in the car. Jesus."

He used the wing mirror to see how he looked. He was soaked to the bone, his face streaked with grease and blood and his coat filthy. Thankfully his suit jacket was mostly undamaged as was his shirt (Well excusing a few stains here and there on the collar), he wondered vaguely for a second about the effect he was having on Lestrade upholstery. His phone beeped again.

Bloody hell Sherlock. I am starting to worry. Text me back. JWx

He did.

On my way. SHx

They parked outside the restaurant and Sherlock went for the door handle. Lestrade sighed to his right and grabbed his arm. "You can't go in there like that. Here." He popped the glove box and pulled out a comb and a pack of wet wipes. "Clean yourself up." Sherlock raised an eyebrow, who knew the DI was so image conscious. He pulled the comb through his tangled drying hair and cleaned as much if the grime from his face and hands as he could.

"There. Happy?"

Lestrade looked him over. He clicked his tongue behind his teeth and reached for something in the back seat. It was a large black umbrella and a thin navy overcoat. "Here, take these, leave your coat behind."

He did as he was told, stepping out of the car under the cover of the umbrella and leaning into the window. Lestrade was shaking his head smirking a little bit. "John is going to kill you." Sherlock just nodded. He hadn't been home in a few days. Lestrade was probably right. "Don't worry about the coat, I'll get it dry-cleaned and sent to the flat. Can't have you flouncing about without your fancy coat now can we."

He knew there was something he was supposed to say here. "Lestrade..."

"Don't thank me. "

"I wasn't going to."

"Of course you weren't"