Disclaimer: I don't own it, just the plot bunny

It's been a while, but it's not quite the end yet... I finally managed to churn this one out with the help of lots of biscuits and tea.. Mycroft is really, really hard to write and I'm not quite happy with this chapter, but I thought I'd kept you all waiting long enough.

Thanks for all the reviews, its really nice to know that people are enjoying it and that you want more :)

Warning: Contains... stuff from earlier chapters.

John woke to found himself slouched in his armchair with a crick in his neck, Sherlock's fist still closed loosely in his sleeve. Careful not to disturb him, John glanced down at his watch and saw with a jolt that it was almost midday. He sat up, wincing as his back protested, and then flinched violently at the sight of a dark figure leaning against the desk. He took in a dark suit, a crisp white shirt, and for a second panic blinded him. But then he saw the face, the combed hair, the clear eyes, and he sighed. Of all days to visit, it had to be today. He put a finger to his lips, his eyes narrowing in a warning, and then gently removed Sherlock's limp fingers from his arm. His flatmate stirred a little, his eyes flickering beneath their lids, but then grew still again. John watched him a moment longer, leaning forwards to see his shoulder. From the little he could see, the swelling had gone down a lot. He glanced over his shoulder, cast his eyes skywards.

"How did you even get in here?" he whispered, picking up the first aid kit and making his way towards the kitchen. The other followed, the floorboards creaking quietly.

"Really, John? Living with a genius, I'd have thought you'd find that puzzle rather simple."

"Yes, yes, alright, keep you voice down!"

Mycroft Holmes arched an eyebrow and folded his hands over the handle of his umbrella. He stood against the counter, watching silently while John busied himself with the kettle. Mycroft's presence in a simple London flat was odd, like a racehorse among sheep. In his long dark coat, thin red tie, sleek suit and polished shoes, he looked rather like a great black crow, surveying his surroundings with a piercing, beady eye. John suddenly wasn't sure what to do with himself. He stood in the same clothes he had been wearing for over twenty four hours, felt the old, musty taste of his mouth and the bags beneath his eyes. He didn't want to know what kind of mess he looked. He stood, holding two empty mugs, trying to work out what he was going to do with them. He didn't want to offer Mycroft one, didn't want the other man to stay. If Sherlock woke up and found his older brother was visiting, he would put up that thick, hostile wall, and that would take energy that Sherlock couldn't afford to spare.

"Inspector Lestrade's becoming rather anxious."

John blinked and glanced up, frowning. "Greg?"

"He's been trying to get through to you all day yesterday." Mycroft surveyed him with a cool, collected gaze. "And your landlady explained she was away, hadn't heard from you. I think he's planning to come down here."

John was searching for his mobile. It had been in his jacket the day before; now he couldn't find either the coat or the device anywhere. He didn't want to make too much noise in the other room should he wake Sherlock, and so eventually gave up and withdrew into the kitchen. His eyes fell on the note on the table from Mrs. Hudson, and he picked it up, but again his eyes strayed to his guest rather than the scrawled letters. He tucked the note into his back pocket instead, his skin itching with Mycroft's attention.

"You can tell him there's no need," John said, keeping his voice quiet. "We've just... been busy."

"Yes, I can see." Mycroft's eyes traveled over the room.

John felt oddly embarrassed. It was as if Mycroft had caught his failure, caught all the mistakes he had made in regards to Sherlock's health in the last few days and was now placing every single one in the air between them. John scowled.

"He's not an easy patient, as I'm sure you know," he said coldly.

"I do know," Mycroft replied lightly. "In fact, I'm rather surprised you haven't had to call the hospital."

John wasn't sure if that was a compliment or not. He brushed over it, pouring himself a cup of coffee, ignoring the second cup.

"Well, I've finally got him to relax and take the damn medicine. And he's asleep anyway, so I don't think now's a good time to-"

"No, no," Mycroft said, waving his hand absently. "Don't worry, Doctor Watson, I'm not here to upset your patient. Just... dropping by."

It sounded wrong, forced. Perhaps stranger was the fact that Mycroft visiting his little brother for no reason at all was odd in John's eyes - Mycroft always had a motive, always had reasons, cards held to his chest. Appearing now with nothing but poorly veiled concern made the situation awkward. His eyes traced John's movements as the doctor stirred his coffee, allowing the silence to stretch on.

"How long do you think it will be before my dear brother recovers?"

The question was light, calm, unhurried, but there was a shadow of something else lingering behind those words. John sighed.

"A while. I mean, a long while. Knowing Sherlock he'll be trying to dive back in as soon as possible, but I want him home for at least a month. I mean, with his ribs, and with his... well, I don't want him to rush anything."

"I see. And he's doing well?"

"Well enough."

Mycroft walked across the kitchen, stood on the spot where tiles met wood paneling. John sipped his coffee, rubbed sleep from his eyes, his head full of Sherlock, antibiotics and food. After a couple of minutes, Mycroft turned to face him again, drumming his fingers on the hilt of his umbrella.

"He's stubborn. He's lucky he has... Well, I'm sure I don't have to tell you."

John blinked at him, uncertain what Mycroft was driving at. Mycroft's smile faded a little as thoughts chased one another across his face.

"Moriarty," John said suddenly, careful to keep his voice low. "You haven't...?"

"I have the very best working on it," Mycroft replied, a shadow lining his face. "I have some of the greatest agents on the world sniffing around for him, but... Moriarty is elusive."

"You need to find him." John glanced up to Mycroft's questioning gaze. "Mycroft, you have to. Sherlock needs to know - I need to know - that he's contained somewhere."

"He can't run forever. We will get to him."

The words meant nothing. All they revealed was that Mycroft and his web of agents were failing to track Moriarty down. John gulped down the last of his coffee, despair clenching his stomach. He wasn't sure he would be able to get a decent night's sleep until Moriarty was caught, let alone Sherlock...

"I want protection."

Mycroft's eyebrows jumped up his forehead. "Protection?"

"Yes." John met his gaze steadily. "I want armed men - trustworthy men - stationed undercover in Baker Street. Sherlock told me that Moriarty is likely to come back for him. I won't give that monster another opportunity to... to hurt him."

He had to spit out the sentence, his face flooding with heat at the embarrassment of speaking so passionately in front of Mycroft Holmes, the Ice Man. And yet he found Mycroft nodding at once alongside his words.

"They'll be here within an hour. I'll text you their numbers, should you need them."

A weight seemed to lift off John's shoulders, and he managed to offer Mycroft a smile. "Thank you."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly, and with a refined goodbye made his way out. He paused in the living room, looking over at his younger brother, and for a moment John thought he was going to wake Sherlock up, talk to him. But then Mycroft turned on his heel and disappeared through the door. John heard his footsteps on the stairs.

It was a strange meeting. If John didn't know better, he would say that he had dreamed the whole experience. But then the two Holmes brothers rarely made any sense when dancing around the topic of the relationship each had with the other. Aware that attempting to understand such a thing would inevitably lead to a headache, John stretched out the kinks in his back and then headed down the corridor to Sherlock's room.

The room was clad in darkness and smelled slightly odd - stuffy, heavy, dusty. The desk across the room was crammed full of seemingly random objects, among them a tiny microscope, several petri dishes, an elaborately carved wooden box, assorted vials of different coloured liquids, a collection of papers covered in strange, barely legible words, numbers, equations, a box of chalk, a few lumps of resin, some ink, a hammer, a metal ruler... John couldn't even name half of the stuff. He was careful not to touch any of it, knowing that Sherlock would have a fit if he knew somebody had touched his things. To his left, the wall was taken up with masses and masses of books - some were stacked neatly in a bookcase, the others in piles against the wall, some left open on the floor, some torn pages nailed to the wall. There was a small black chair there, but it was almost obscured with shirts. A massive map of London sprawled over the wall opposite Sherlock's bed, additional details added with post-it notes, blue-tack, and scraps of torn paper or napkin. Sherlock's floor was bare of any carpet or rug - Sherlock did not use this room for comfort, but as a storage unit for past cases or older belongings. The wardrobe beside the window that held his clothes hung open, various costumes and disguises swinging from the doors. His bedside table was likewise stacked with books and objects. Picking his way through the mess, John made his way to the great window across the room and drew the curtains, propped the window open. The air outside was cold and biting, and the light that flooded the room seemed to chase away some of the cobwebs and secrets lingering in its depths. John pulled Sherlock's crumpled sheets straight and folded back one side of the duvet, arranging the pillows carefully and clearing a small space on one of the bedside tables before heading back towards the living room. He looked in on Sherlock - still asleep, brow slightly furrowed - and then made his way into the bathroom and turned on the shower.

He washed quickly, left his hair wet. The hot water pounding on his aching back and cramped muscles was heaven - he felt as if he could have stayed there all day - but unfortunately there was a detective with a high fever and several severe traumatic experiences under his belt in the other room, and John couldn't afford to leave him alone for too long. As he threw on some fresh clothes - the supply of which was rapidly depleting as he, again, put off doing his laundry - he heard the sound of movement in the other room and hastily dragged on a shirt. He reached the living room in time to see Sherlock try and fail to get up from the sofa, a rough groan escaping his tight jaw as he held his broken ribs. Despite the pain, he reached out one hand for the arm of the sofa, ready to try again, his toes curling into the carpet. John stepped forwards hastily.

"Going somewhere?"

Sherlock glanced up sharply. John stole the moment to take a long look at him. His eyes were still bright with fever, his face slightly flushed, the thin film of sweat still on his forehead. His body trembled as he shifted on the sofa and he kept his head turned away from the windows, as if the light was hurting his head. He still looked drained, thin, sick... John instantly regretted allowing him to stay up and talk for so long the night before. Sherlock needed rest, and John had allowed his own curiosity to overcome his common sense.

"I assumed I was permitted to move," Sherlock replied. His voice was dull, dry, his breaths labored. John tactfully pretended not to notice.

"As far as I'm concerned, you're not permitted to do anything without my say so," he said with a smirk. He put his shoulder against his armchair, shoving it back across the room towards the fireplace with a grunt. "How do you feel?"

Sherlock shrugged tiredly. The fact that he didn't spit out a comeback was enough to tell John that he was feeling the strain already. He sat, huddled over his ribs, his eyes slipping out of focus as John heaved his chair back into its original position before returning to the sofa. He crouched down on the balls of his feet and felt Sherlock's forehead; his flatmate pulled away, scowling.

"What are you doing?"

"I'm checking your temperature." John rolled his eyes. "Come on, just come here..."

Sherlock's scowl deepened, but he sat still while John felt his brow, studied his pupils, then pulled his pyjama shirt aside and examined his bandaged shoulder. He was all too aware of the shudders rolling through Sherlock's tormented body and the heat radiating from his skin, but thankfully the infection seemed to have subsided a little. If he monitored it carefully over the next few days, it should heal well. Hopefully Sherlock's stubborn nature hadn't caused any permanent damage. By the time John sat back on his heels, Sherlock's eyes had closed and he was pinching the bridge of his nose with his uninjured hand, his shoulders bunched. John kept one hand on his arm, maintaining contact.

"Can you tell me how you feel?"

"How do you think?" Sherlock mumbled. "Bloody awful."

John couldn't help but smile at his impatience. Because despite the fact that he was being rude and inconsiderate and self-centered... all of that meant that Sherlock, the real Sherlock, was already on his way back. Stubborn as a mule, he was already clawing his way back to the surface. John rose to his feet.

"I know," he said, keeping his voice soft. "I'm afraid it's going to be a long road, but... well, give it time, yeah?"

Sherlock scoffed under his breath, and then winced and pressed the heel of his palm to his head.

"I think you should eat something."

Sherlock's lip curled.

"Please, Sherlock, just a little bit, and then we'll get you back to bed."

Any other day, Sherlock would have flatly refused and ordered John to stop mothering him and leave him alone. But now, John saw his cloudy gaze focus on something on the floor and saw his lips quirk, his eyes narrow. Then, slowly, he nodded. John glanced down, and his stomach flipped over as he saw half of the violin bow lying on the ground near the sofa, horse hair strings splayed across the carpet. Clearing his throat, he headed towards the kitchen.

"What would you like?" he threw over his shoulder, trying to distract his flatmate. "I think Mrs. Hudson left us some soup. I'll heat it up, yeah?"

A heavy sigh was his only response. Aware that this was as communicative as Sherlock was going to get, John went ahead with a pot of Mrs. Hudson's homemade soup he found behind a murky vial of indiscriminate fluid. Having placed it on the hob and lit the gas, he crossed back to the sofa, where Sherlock had his head in his hands.

"Kitchen?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Come on, you can lean on me."

"John..."

John bent down, pulling Sherlock's hands gently away from his face. Sherlock's eyes closed in despair but, reluctantly, slowly, he reached for John's shoulder with his uninjured arm and allowed the other man to lift him gently to his feet. The movement sent a stiffness through Sherlock's body and furrowed his brow with a hiss of pain, but John simply wound an arm around his waist and helped him across the room into the kitchen. Sherlock sank into the chair John directed him to and doubled over at once, his teeth gritted together. John made a dive for the soup, managing to rescue it just in time from frothing over, and poured it into a bowl which he set in front of Sherlock along with a spoon. Sherlock glared at it.

"I fail to see the point in this."

"I could list a few for you, I'm sure I could go on for a while."

Sherlock's nose wrinkled. He inched forwards to the edge of his seat, one arm still wrapped around his bruised side, reached for the spoon with trembling fingers. John turned his back, busied himself with making some toast. The juddering clink of the spoon against the bowl made Sherlock's weak grip painfully obvious. John fetched the box of antibiotics. He made some tea, too, placed a cup near Sherlock's elbow before sitting down with his own breakfast. He eyed the bowl, which was barely half-empty. Sherlock took long pauses between each mouthful, as if forcing each one down.

"Stop looking at me."

"Sorry." John buttered his toast. "You'll want to have another couple of those about now."

Sherlock glanced at the antibiotics. "They slow me down. They stop me from thinking."

"You don't need to think at the moment."

"I always need to think, John, don't be ridiculous."

There was a short stretch of silence, in which John ate some toast and Sherlock looked from him to the box and back again, his gaze stony. Then, slowly, he reached for the box and took out two of the pills, swallowed them down, then flicked the box across the table at John, who caught it with a smug grin.

"One week," Sherlock muttered. "I'll take them for one week, and then I'm stopping, I don't care what you say."

"Fine."

"Stop that."

"Stop what?"

"Stop looking so... Urgh." Sherlock threw his spoon into the bowl, pushed it away. "I can't do this, I can't have any more."

John hesitated, but he sounded genuinely distressed and two thirds of the soup was gone. Nodding, he crammed the last of his toast into his mouth and took their dishes, leaving them in the sink. Sherlock took a sip of tea, but then put the mug down and pushed that away, too.

"You have to eat properly, Sherlock, especially now-"

"Yes, yes, a truly enrapturing lecture, but forgive me if I'm not in the mood."

Sherlock had his head in his hands, his fingers probing at the cut on his temple. John resisted the urge to shoo his hands away, warn him about scratching his stitches. Instead, he glanced towards the living room, at the mess on the floor and the sofa. He had a lot to clean up.

"I want to go back to my room."

"Yeah." John turned back to Sherlock. "Do you want something for the pain? I can't give you anything too strong, you know, the antibiotics and all, but I could find something to take the edge off?"

"No, thank you."

"Are you sure?"

A short, sharp nod, fingers pressed hard against temples. John opened his mouth, but then decided against pushing him. Sherlock was being complacent, and John wasn't about to play with his temper.

"Alright. Come on, then."

And just as he reached out, there was a sudden, violent banging from downstairs. John froze; Sherlock flinched. For a few seconds they both remained motionless. Then John patted Sherlock's uninjured shoulder.

"I'll go, stay here."

Sherlock's eyes drilled into him all the way out of the room. John jogged down the stairs, slowed as he reached the hall. He stood watching the door, remembering the night before when all that terror had only been caused by a drunk staggering across the street, remembering that morning when the drab sight of Mycroft had almost made him jump out of his skin. He was nervous, he was over-tired, and he was being paranoid. And yet still, he found that he couldn't make himself open that door. He took a breath, reached for the door handle, and then jumped back as the banging came again, this time accompanied by a muffled shout. John relaxed, muttered a curse under his breath, and dragged the door open.

Lestrade stood on the step, his mouth a firm, hard line and his hands balled into fists. As soon as John opened the door he leaped forwards, a stream of fury spilling from his mouth.

"Where the hell have you been? I've been calling all morning, I texted all last night, what, did you have something better to do? I thought something had happened to the two of you!"

"Sorry, Greg," John sighed, pushing the door to. "My phone's in my jacket, I haven't looked at it since yesterday. Things have been a little rough..."

"A little rough? You do realize that I still haven't got Sherlock's statement, I still haven't-"

"Things have been hard, alright? And you can't talk to him right now, he's-"

"I have to talk to him now, John, I've already given you more time than I should have!"

"No!" The word came out louder than he had wanted it to, and he shot a fugitive glance towards the top of the stairs. "No, not now," he continued, lowering his voice. "He's finally starting to settle, I can't have you disrupting everything now!"

"Disrupting?" Lestrade screwed his thumbs into his eyes. "John, you know how many liberties I take for the two of you, how much I bend the rules! Now I would not be here now if I had any other option. But I have to talk to Sherlock, I need just a short statement, and then you can have all the time you want."

John considered it, and then kicked the idea away within a fraction of a second. There was just no way. Sherlock was too fragile, too close to the edge. He looked Lestrade in the eye. "I can't let you do that."

"You don't have a choice, John, I don't have a choice!"

"Tough. Greg-"

"John-"

"Problem?"

Both men flinched violently and span around. Sherlock stood at the top of the stairs, his legs unsteady, leaning against the wall. His eyes were ringed with dark circles, his face pale, his dressing-gown clumsily pulled closed to hide the bruises, the bandages, the blood. But his back was straight and that dark, steady gaze focused first on John and then on Lestrade. The corner of his mouth twitched, in that familiar way, that way that could have been a smirk or a wince. Lestrade and John, standing frozen at the bottom of the stairs, stared up at him in a stunned silence.

"The head of department's been pushing you for answers about this case, he's ticked off because Donovan told him you'd let me out of hospital early. You're so stressed you've forgotten to shave and you haven't had time to get your morning coffee. It's fine, John can make you some while we talk."

Sherlock's voice was flowing, calm, composed. A million miles away from the man who had sat on the sofa and explained to John every detail of the week that had brought him spiraling towards breaking point. John searched for his eyes, but Sherlock was deliberately looking straight at Lestrade, who seemed to be visibly sagging with relief.

"Thank you," he said, shooting a glare at John that said 'see?'. "Thank you, Sherlock."

He started up the stairs, but John darted past him and reached Sherlock first, his eyes narrowed.

"What are you doing?" he hissed under his breath. "Sherlock, I'm your doctor, and I say you are not ready for this."

Sherlock stared back at him. "Mind if we use my room, Lestrade?"

"No, no, fine."

"Sherlock." John spat the word through gritted teeth, and would have launched into a long and detailed rant had Sherlock not put a hand on his shoulder. Not to stop him, but because his long legs were buckling beneath him. Alarmed, John hastily pulled Sherlock's arm across his shoulders and steered his flatmate towards his bedroom, leaving Lestrade to strip off his coat and take out his wallet, ID and phone in the corridor.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about!" He snapped, taking most of Sherlock's weight as they reached his room. He deposited his flatmate gingerly on the bed, pulled the pillows upright so that he could sit comfortably, pulled the duvet up over his legs. "You can't just... just... force your way through, and expect everything to be okay! You're not okay, for god's sake!"

"Stop being so emotional, John, I'll be fine." Sherlock winced as John pulled his shirt aside and examined his shoulder. "Lestrade has a job, has responsibilities."

"Yeah, well, I have a job too."

"You can go back to the clinic any day now, I'll be able to manage-"

"I wasn't talking about the bloody clinic!" John turned on his heel. He stopped Lestrade at the door. "Ten minutes. Ten. Any longer and I'm sedating him."

Lestrade nodded, a tape recorder ready in his hand. John strode back into the living room, and then stopped dead at the sight of the mess. He still hadn't cleaned up from the night before. Sighing heavily, he put the kettle on once more and then began picking up the bits and pieces piled around the sofa. He fetched a carrier bag for the fragments that remained of the violin, went down on his knees to scoop them up. He threw piece after piece into the bag, each landing with a muffled crackle of plastic. He succeeded in giving himself a splinter and sat back on his heels, mumbling abuse, cradling his finger. Why did Sherlock always, always have to make everything so difficult? Why was it always John who found himself panicking, found himself taking on all the stress and the anger and the grief, while Sherlock simply breezed on through? He launched forwards, grabbing for the snapped bow of the violin. Sometimes, John wanted nothing more than to walk out of the door and never come back. Sometimes he wanted to scream and shake Sherlock until the detective just admitted that he could feel, that he wasn't just a porcelain shell... John realized that his own hands were shaking violently, that his breath was catching in his throat, that his eyes were wet. Swallowing hard, shaken by how fast it had come on, John groped his way towards his armchair and sank into it, wiping furiously at his eyes, forcing himself to take a couple of deep breaths.

He hadn't felt like this since he had been kneeling in a cage in Baskerville, his lungs so tight that he couldn't even think, his ears ringing with the snarls of a massive hallucinated hound. He hadn't felt so terrified, pushed to his limits... He dropped his head into his hands, shoulders shuddering as he struggled to calm down, jaw clenched so tightly that his teeth ached. He could see the bridge of the violin lying between his feet on the ground, rubbed and worn from the strings. He stared at it dully, his eyes burning. How many more times was he going to see Sherlock run himself into the ground? How long was it going to take the stupid, stupid idiot to understand that he was human, he was breakable...

If it hadn't been so quiet, and if he hadn't let his mind run into emptiness, he might not have heard the soft Brrrrrr of a vibrating phone across the room. He raised his head, and then stood slowly and made his way over to the sofa. On the floor beside it was his jacket - he must have tossed it down there the night before. He felt in the pocket and finally drew out his mobile, the screen flashing with twelve missed calls, numerous texts; most from Lestrade, some from Mrs. Hudson, a couple even from Donovan...

John, pick up your phone. I need to talk to you and Sherlock. - GL

Greg says you two are ignoring his calls - tell the freak to pick up. - SD

For god's sake, John, will you just text me at least? It's about his statement. - GL

Hello boys, I looked for you earlier but the door was shut and there was no answer when I knocked. I've had news of a terrible dilemma with my sister in Manchester, I've no choice but to go and stay with her and the children for a few days. Awful business, but unavoidable. I do hope you'll be alright without me for a little bit, I've left some shepard's pie and some lasagna in my fridge for you to heat up. Look after yourselves, tell Sherlock to get well soon. I will call when I can. - Ms. H

John! - GL

He scrolled to the most recent, the others a mere blur before his eyes.

Done. You can call them Smith, Jones and Williams. They're stationed around your house now, ready for your orders. Do give my brother my regards. - MH

He scanned the three mobile numbers that followed, and instantly felt a thick surge of relief, read the text through twice more. Just like that, he could allow himself to feel hopeful, he could allow himself to believe that they could pull through all of this somehow. He had back up. He wasn't alone. He sent a brief word of mental thanks to Mycroft Holmes, who for all his strange habits and childish feuds, was extremely good at coming through on his word. Pulling himself together, he squared his shoulders and returned to his task of cleaning up the living room, his pace brisker, his hands more deft.

He left the bag filled with what remained of the violin on the kitchen table, not too sure what to do with it. He couldn't throw it out, and yet the sight of it there would surely only upset Sherlock. But to toss it away, to let it fall into a rubbish truck filled with rotting food and waste, seemed almost disrespectful. He could hardly give it a funeral, but ridiculous as it sounded, that collection of wood and strings was a part of Sherlock. It was an echo of his elegance, his lean frame, his absent-minded precision. And John couldn't bring himself to let it go. So he left the pieces folded neatly in their bag on the table, and he made the coffee.

It wasn't until he was pouring milk into Lestrade's cup and stirring it in with a spoon salvaged from the growing pile of dirty plates and cutlery in the sink that he began to think. And then he began to wonder. And then his heart began to beat fast and hard, and his fingers faltered, and he felt his teeth fastening on his lip. Mrs. Hudson had knocked on the door, and then left in a hurry. She had never entered their flat. He remembered that morning, the day she had gone, remembered staring at the pills and the cup of tea for Sherlock on the table, deliberating whether to go through with it, and seeing only that cup and those pills on the table. Nothing else. And yet when he had got back, much later that evening, something else had been there. And only Sherlock had been in the flat, roving around it in his blind, destructive rage.

But there would be no need for Sherlock to write a note to himself, surely...

John felt his hand slipping into his back pocket, drawing out the small, folded, crisp square of paper. He didn't want to look. He so, so wanted to just leave it there, pretended that he had never put that jigsaw together, forced the rules of reality to bend until it hadn't happened... But his fingers pulled the note open again, his shaking fingers, and his eyes focused at last on the words he had been too busy to see for so very long...

A ring, a ring of roses, pocket full of posies, BANG BANG BANG BANG we all fall down...

Is he missing me yet?

It was signed with flourish, with triumph, a coiled, swirling, single letter that sent thrills of electric terror down John's spine. He span around at once, his eyes roving across the kitchen, over the living room... he didn't know what he was expecting to see. Shadows coming to life? Assassins dropping down from the ceiling? He shoved his way out into the corridor on legs that wobbled like jelly, circled his own room, darted downstairs, strode through Mrs. Hudson's flat, checked the back door, checked the front door... At the front door he stopped, his chest heaving, his hands flicking across his phone. Within seconds he had ordered the three bodyguards to conduct a sweep of the area, check for anyone suspicious, anything at all... He climbed the stairs again, stood in the corridor, listening to the low rumble of voices in Sherlock's room. He stood there, numb, his blood roaring in his ears, the corridor swimming before his gaze.

He had been in their flat. He had come into their flat.

He had been there when Sherlock was alone.

John had to force himself to remember how to breathe. He swayed his way back into the kitchen, braced himself against the counter.

"Oh god, oh god... oh jesus..."

He had to bite his lip to stop the words from spilling out. Moriarty's web reached everywhere. He stared down at the note crumpled to a ball in his hand, his knuckles white. Just visible between his coiled fingers was that letter, that one letter marked in black ink. Funny how much power a single letter now had, how much meaning, how much fear. Funny that all John could do was stare at it, sitting there on the page, gloating, grinning, so vivid that he could almost see the face of its writer in front of him.

M

x x x

Reviews are very welcome, hope you enjoyed it.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.