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

I'm thinking perhaps three or four more chapters are left to go before I close this fic. It's so much fun to write, but I now have a nice, neat little plot for it, which I think is a better tactic than just writing randomly, which is all I've been doing so far...

Apologies for the delay on this chapter, I rewrote it a couple of times. I'm still not quite happy with it, it feels too much like a filler, but I didn't want to leave you lot hanging any longer. Hopefully you'll enjoy it.

Thank you very much for the reviews, it's lovely to know you're all enjoying the ride.

WARNING: contains bad language, violence and the like...

"I'm going out."

John flinched awake at the words, sending his cup of tea tumbling to the floor with an earsplitting crash that had him jumping out of his skin. He swore, his eyes barely functional as he dropped out of his armchair and fumbled blearily with the shards of china, barring helplessly at the tea that was now soaking into the rug.

"For god's sake..."

After a few long moments he realized his attempts were fruitless and sat back on his heels, staring at the large, dark stain, trying to remember just what it was that he was supposed to be doing. Then, as his mind caught up with the events around him, he lifted his head to squint at the tall, dark figure now standing in the doorway of the living room.

Sherlock gazed back at him, his back straight, on hand deep in his pocket where it was presumably wrapped around his mobile phone. He was wearing a rich, dark blue shirt, black pressed trousers and polished shoes. His hair had been tidied - not brushed, because Sherlock was only vain when it came to intellect - and parted to the left in order to hide what remained of the gash on his temple. It, like the rest of his face, had now faded well, but against Sherlock's marble skin even the slightest bruise stood out a mile. John's rather violent reaction to his entrance didn't seem to have surprised the detective; instead, Sherlock simply met John's foggy stare with calm determination.

"You're what?"

Sherlock moved into the room and crossed to the corner, where he took down his coat. He took a moment before pulling it on, carefully guiding through one arm and then the other. He winced as he tugged it straight, brushed his fingertips over his injured shoulder.

"To the police station," he said. "I need to speak to Lestrade."

"The phone...?"

"I prefer to text. I don't want to do this over text."

John put his head in his hands. He tried to think of words to say, and came up with nothing. Because he should have seen this coming.

Sherlock had so far been surprisingly complacent. When John had told him to sleep, he had gone to bed. When John had told him to eat, he had quietly accepted whatever food put in front of him. When John had started wielding the first aid kit and barking about checking the infection and changing bandages, Sherlock had sat still and allowed John to examine him. He had been honest when John demanded how much pain he was in, he had taken the antibiotics regularly and calmly without protest and he had not complained. Which made the boredom building up behind those clear, pale eyes all the more dangerous.

John couldn't allow him to do too much, for fear of exhausting him. As a result, Sherlock was confined to the flat and was only permitted to get up to take a bath, eat at the table, or sit in front of the television for a few hours. The first day this had happened, Sherlock had discovered the plastic carrier bag filled with pieces of his violin stashed away on the desk, and had spent the rest of the evening stony faced and completely silent. Since then, John had kept the bag hidden in the top drawer of his bedside table. He hadn't known how to explain to Sherlock why he had kept the pieces, or what Sherlock would want to do with them. So they stayed in the drawer, hidden and silent. Sherlock had returned to his usual collected demeanor by the next day, but John couldn't help but notice the way his eyes sometimes strayed around the living room, perhaps searching for the carrier bag, perhaps for the instrument the contents had once made up.

Of course, a mind like Sherlock's was impossible to restrain; John could order his body to rest, but he couldn't order Sherlock's overactive brain to do anything. When those long fingers began to twitch with frustration, John had been forced to relax some of his new regulations - he managed to get hold of some low-level case files from Lestrade and let Sherlock leaf through them, scrawling his deductions down on a notepad, his flowing voice vibrating through the flat as his thoughts rolled off his tongue. Slouched in his bed, surrounded by pens, phones, books and papers, Sherlock could be fleetingly entertained. But the days were long, and by the time a week had passed Sherlock was climbing the walls and John... John was a nervous wreck. He looked sicker than Sherlock, and he knew it.

Because while Sherlock was playing the good patient, while he was agreeing to sit quiet and play with his toys, John was watching every shadow on the wall, flinching at every creak of the house. As a soldier, John had been trained to deal with severe stress, dangerous conditions and armed enemies. But somehow, nothing he had ever been taught in the army, nothing he had been taught in the depths of Afghanistan, nothing at all he had ever encountered before had equipped him to know how to act with the knowledge that Jim Moriarty could be watching his every move.

Shaking and shuddering in the kitchen, that godforsaken note clutched in his fist, there had been only one thing he could do. He had texted Mycroft Holmes.

Mycroft responded quickly and efficiently, and for some reason that helped to calm John's nerves a little. A little, not completely. Mycroft might be the British Government itself, but even he seemed to be unable to track down Moriarty. John retreated to the bathroom and splashed icy water over his face, took a long few minutes remembering how to breathe. He stared at himself in the mirror, at his own white skin and the dark circles around his eyes, his disheveled hair and the lines on his forehead. He felt old. He washed his face again, more carefully this time, as if trying to wipe away the traces of fatigue and fear that had embedded themselves in his face. Then he emerged, feeling a little more collected, a little more steady. He had to be steady. Sherlock needed him; no matter how much of a front he put on for the others, John was his rock. He couldn't afford to crumble now, because if he dared to, Sherlock would come crumbling down with him.

He waited for Lestrade to finish instead of joining the two of them in Sherlock's room. When the Detective Inspector finally did appear it was with a heavy sigh and a role of his eyes. He tucked his tape recorder into his pocket, reached for his jacket. He tossed John an exasperated look as he pulled it on.

"Well, it's something. He was so vague. But I suppose - well, it's to be expected, isn't it?"

John resisted the urge to shake the inspector, to scream that Sherlock had a damn right to be vague, that no matter how hard he tried not to he did indeed possess emotions, he was not invincible. But he didn't. Instead, he grabbed Lestrade's arm as the Inspector made to leave, pulled him through into the living room. His hands still shook a little as he spread out the note and held it for Lestrade to see. He had already taken several photos and sent them to Mycroft, who had promised that he had people examining it at once and was sending a detective over to look at it.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked in a strangely high-pitched voice, his eyes glittering with something akin to panic as he read and re-read the note. "Sherlock's right in the other room, he could-"

"No, no." John shook his head curtly. "As far as he's concerned, this never happened. Sherlock needs to rest, and he can't do that with this... this fear hanging over him. We secure the house, we keep that maniac out, and we let him recover."

Lestrade took a long hesitation before replying, his eyes flicking between the note and John's tight, hard face before he nodded slowly. "You're his doctor," he muttered. "But John, if it could help us stop Moriarty... well, afterwards he can really rest, can't he?"

They were words that would ring in John's head for days after Lestrade left. John walked him to the door, his heart sinking as he waved goodbye. Without the sounds of Mrs. Hudson pottering about, or the bangs and clatters of Sherlock's various experiments, the flat was oddly silent. No, worse than silent - deathly still. The air seemed frozen, the very walls holding their breath, simply waiting... The three faceless agents Mycroft had stationed in Baker Street were the only things that stood between Sherlock and Moriarty. It felt like hiding from bullets with a paper shield.

Mycroft worked fast, organised everything at lightning speed. The agents were notified, cameras and security measures were set up all around 221b and a select team was at the ready should anything even remotely out of the ordinary occur. Layer after layer of protection was being built up, and yet still John felt exposed. At Mycroft's suggestion, he had spoken with Mrs. Hudson on the phone and convinced her to remain with her sister in Manchester until it was safer to return home. Now, John almost wished she was here. Somebody to ease the horrible tension. The longer nothing happened, the more terrified he felt. Lestrade made regular visits, but they were usually late at night after John had sent Sherlock to bed like a strict parent, and were conducted in hushed voices. Nothing ever came of them - no news on Moriarty, nothing to either inspire hope or inject fear, nothing at all. Every morning and every evening John would call each of Mycroft's agents to hear the same responses: 'No, Sir, nothing. Yes, Sir, we'll double check. Of course Sir, at once, if anything at all happens'. They dropped into an awful, endless, repetitive cycle. Waiting.

John no longer knew how to sleep at night. If he was lucky he snatched a couple of hours on the sofa or in the armchair in Sherlock's room. If he was unlucky, he would find himself first staring with wide eyes into the darkness of night pressing in around him, then jolting with panic at every minuscule sound he heard before finally being driven out into the cold hallway. He would spend the rest of the night sitting on the floor outside Sherlock's room, leaning against the wall, his head buried in his arms, torn between fury at himself for letting his fear drive him into the corridor and sheer despair. He wasn't sure why he thought sitting beside Sherlock's closed door would do any kind of good - if Moriarty did storm into their flat with armed gunmen, one sleep deprived ex-soldier sore from sitting on the ground in the hallway certainly wasn't going to slow him down. Not even a little. And yet still John stayed until his muscles ached and his head felt like jelly.

And of course Sherlock noticed. He would watch John as he made dinner with hands that shook with sleep deprivation; he would arch his eyebrows questioningly as John almost nodded off for the third time at five thirty in front of the television. Sometimes he would hint, others he would just watch silently. John could almost hear the cogs turning in his head, but whatever conclusions he drew, Sherlock never asked John outright what was going on. He had asked that once, and only once - the day John found the note. Having watched Lestrade leave, John had made Sherlock some tea and made his way to his room, trying to smooth out the lines of anxiety digging themselves into his forehead.

At the time, Sherlock didn't seem to be in any kind of state to analyse his appearance anyway. He was slouched in bed, the duvet pulled up and cocooned around him, his eyes misty with weariness. He didn't appear to notice John at first, clearly lost in his own private thoughts. John didn't need his flatmate's powers of deduction to know what he was thinking about. He sat down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, wrapped his long hands around the mug of tea. The contact stirred Sherlock out of his meditative state and he blinked, eyes flashing briefly to John and then down to the mug.

"How are you feeling?"

"Bored."

John let out a bark of laughter, despite himself. Sherlock sipped at the tea, wriggled further into his nest of duvets and pillows, winced. His arms, protruding from the white mass like slender twigs suddenly looked alarmingly skinny, almost anorexic. John watched the tendons on the back of his hands shift and stretch, his head close to bursting with thoughts of how much there would be to do without Mrs. Hudson around to back him up, thoughts of shopping and cooking and the danger of leaving Sherlock alone... A few minutes passed in silence before Sherlock spoke.

"You look worse than me."

John blinked, finding his flatmate's pale eyes fixed on his own, suddenly alert and unwavering. His dark hair tumbled wildly in every direction; the sunlight streaming through the open window sent dark, sharp shadows across his angular face; goosebumps were rising on his arms. His gaze searched John, made him distinctly aware of the note from Moriarty in his back pocket. The little piece of paper burned there, daring John to tell him, to explain...

"I'm tired," John said, rising and crossing to the window to shut it, pulled the curtain half-closed. "And so are you. I think it's about time we both got some decent sleep - and this time in beds."

Sherlock's eyes followed him back across the room, but if he saw through John's evasion, he said nothing. He drank a little more tea, stifled a yawn. John struggled not to double-take; he couldn't remember the last time he had seen Sherlock yawn. It was surreal, almost funny to see. He waited until Sherlock held out the mug, then positioned it within reach on the bedside table and helped Sherlock to lie down, pushing the pillows into position around him. Sherlock rolled his eyes a little, as if in protest of John's mother hen act, but for once kept his sharp comments behind his teeth as John fussed over him.

"I didn't tell Lestrade everything," he said quietly as John heaved the duvet over his shoulders. "Stupid, careless, I know. But for some reason I... I left some parts out."

John tried to catch his eye, but Sherlock was pointedly fixing his gaze on the duvet instead, his long fingers drawing small, gliding circles in the sheets. It seemed that Sherlock was waiting for a judgement of some kind, testing the water, perhaps trying to gauge whether the action had only been a side effect of his current state. Almost without John noticing, Sherlock was attempting to slide back into that clinical, scientific mind of his, effectively severing the need for comfort, for human contact. John watched Sherlock watch the blanket, feeling slightly stung. On top of everything else, he couldn't handle Sherlock trying to push him away at this moment.

He shook his head. "I think you can be forgiven for that, Sherlock. If you really want, we can talk about it with him again when you feel a little more like yourself."

"I am myself."

"Yeah, well, still."

There was a short pause as John quickly laid a hand against Sherlock's forehead, then straightened up. His temperature was still high, but it had improved dramatically. As long as Sherlock kept up with the antibiotics, as long as there were no complications... if, if, if... John caught his lip between his teeth, his mind mulling over everything too fast for him to draw any kind of conclusion. There were just too many 'if's. Too many 'maybe's. Now that Moriarty had stalked back onto the scene, everything had been thrown into a tense, uncertain balance.

"Not good?"

John came back to earth with a thud, realizing that Sherlock had opened one eye and was watching him. "What?"

"You're worried. Obviously."

Silently cursing his foolishness at thinking in front of Sherlock - a man who was famous for practically reading minds - John forced a smile. "No, no, just thinking. Get some rest, I'll be back in a couple of hours. I'm right in the other room if..." He let his words trail off as Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "Alright, alright, well I'll be right there anyway."

He made for the door. As his hand came into contact with the brass knob, Sherlock's voice broke the silence once more.

"John."

John stopped. He didn't turn around. He just stopped. He could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into him, boring through him, could feel his ears turning red as he struggled to maintain the easy, relaxed expression that said 'everything's okay'. He knew he was failing.

"Is there anything you want to say, John?"

Yes. Moriarty has been wandering around this very flat, and I have no doubt at all that he is going to come back for you. And I don't think there's anything I can do to stop him.

"No. No, nothing. Why?"

He felt as if someone else was stuttering those stupid, pathetic, bumbling words. He barely even felt his own lips move. He remained still, unsure whether he should turn around and face Sherlock's stare, or whether he should just leave before it got any worse. But then Sherlock grunted under his breath, apparently satisfied, and there was a rustle as he pulled the duvet close. John risked a glance at him, found that his flatmate's face was buried in the sea of sheets. He had been dismissed. Without wasting another second, John dragged the door open and dived into the hallway, letting out a heavy sigh, completely aware that he had just deceived Sherlock Holmes and unable to fathom whether he should be elated or disgusted at his success.

The bad taste of his lies remained in his mouth for the rest of that gruesomely uneventful week, swelling every time Sherlock complied with his requests. And now, slumped on the floor with tea soaking into his jeans and stubble on his unshaven, grey face, John felt like he had lost any kind of authority to tell Sherlock what to do.

He reached for his armchair and heaved himself to his feet, wondering how much time had passed since he made Sherlock breakfast. The five minute break he had taken afterwards had clearly fallen apart and stretched into a brief dip into unconsciousness. His back protested as he straightened - last night was one of the many nights he had recently spent outside Sherlock's room on the floor - and he groaned aloud. He felt Sherlock's eyes on him and hurriedly tried to keep his mind focused on their conversation. Words slipped away from him like grains of sand.

"You can't go out," he said at last, as Sherlock reached for his scarf.

"I've called a taxi, it's downstairs now. Lestrade will be waiting at the door of the station to meet me. The taxi driver has agreed to wait until I finish my work. I'll be back within a couple of hours. I conclude that I most certainly can."

The statements were pure fact, listed in a slightly bored and monotonous voice, topped off with a slight cock of the head that quite clearly said 'Go on, find a problem'. John pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to force his brain to work.

"Why?" he managed.

A smirk twitched at Sherlock's lips, and John almost kicked himself for even bothering to ask. Moriarty, of course. Sherlock was well aware that they had made little to no progress in the case, and it wasn't like Sherlock to simply ignore a nice, juicy unsolved crime. John ran through some protests in his head, doubted that any would do any good whatsoever, and then gave in. He reached for his coat, slung over the back of his armchair.

"Fine. Fine, I suppose... well, if we really are back within two hours-"

"Oh, no, John, you're not coming."

John froze, coat half on. He blinked at Sherlock, wondering if he had misheard. "Not... What are you talking about? Of course I'm coming."

"When was the last time you saw yourself, John?" Sherlock's voice was soft, lightly probing.

"What? I don't-"

"I'm going to make this very easy for you," Sherlock said smoothly. His hand moved down to tug John's jacket off and throw it back down on the armchair. "While your concern for my well-being is extremely flattering and your relentless attention is admirable, it is by no means healthy. Now, I am going to go to the police station and speak with Lestrade about this case. Meanwhile, you are going to get some sleep."

John didn't know what was more shocking - the fact that Sherlock was showing actual concern for another human beings 'health' or the fact that he was saying it all in such a controlled, relaxed manner. And then he noticed the way that Sherlock was looking at him - cautious, measuring - and realized that his flatmate was using a tone of voice he saved for clients who were in shock or needed a nudge during questioning. He was treating John with care. He was treating him as if he had turned to glass. John swallowed hard, suddenly recognizing just how much his bones ached, how much his head hurt, how willing he was to just fall back into the armchair and never get up... He scrubbed a hand across his forehead. He needed sleep. And maybe if Sherlock was out of the house and safe with Lestrade, maybe John could actually manage to close his eyes for longer than half an hour. He met Sherlock's steady gaze.

"Two hours," he said, stabbing a finger at him. "Two. No more. And if you... I don't know, if you pull any stitches, I'll..."

Sherlock nodded. "I'll be sent straight home and sent to bed without dinner. I understand."

He said it with a completely straight face, so serious that the absurdity of his words didn't come together within John's head until Sherlock had stepped past him and was making for the door. John huffed out a dry laugh, shaking his head, following Sherlock to the top of the stairs.

"Just... take it easy, will you?" he called, leaning against the wall as Sherlock reached the front door. "No showing off."

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. "Get some rest, John."

The door shut behind him, leaving John alone in the large, silent flat. He reached for his mobile, called agent 'Smith' to alert him to Sherlock's movements. 'Smith' had already noticed and was tailing Sherlock to the police station at that very moment. John returned the phone to his pocket, stood watching the door for a moment longer. He felt so strange allowing Sherlock out of his sight. It seemed wrong. Without his presence hovering a couple of rooms away, just around the corner, John felt oddly useless. His single purpose - look after Sherlock - had come to an abrupt stand still.

He returned to the living room, went down on his knees, scooped up the shards of china on the rug. His movements were slow, sluggish. For the first time in days he felt a desperate, relentless urge to go into his room, lie down on his bed, and be numb to the word for hours. He brushed a hand across his eyes, suppressing a yawn, rose to his feet with the pieces cupped in his hands. As he reached the bin in the kitchen his phone vibrated loudly, and he wiped his hands off before retrieving it.

Urgent discovery has been made. May I enter your flat? - W

He blinked at the 'W' for a while before eventually understanding it to be 'Williams', one of Mycrofts three agents. His heart leaped in fear and his stomach sank in dejection. The one moment, the one tiny moment he had finally felt like getting some actual rest, and it had been snatched away from him within seconds. He kneaded his eyes with his thumbs, then typed a short response and shuffled back into the living room. He glanced in the mirror as he went, winced at the large bags beneath his eyes, the bloodless tint of his skin. Sherlock was right - he looked awful. He crossed to the window, glanced out at the street below, but he didn't even get a chance to see Williams arrive.

The door downstairs opened and closed, and by the time John turned from the window Williams was appearing in the doorway. She was dressed in an unremarkable black jacket and skinny jeans, a large rucksack on her back. Her face was stern, hair pulled back into a tight pony tail. John could easily see her snapping someone's neck with a karate kick and tried not to shiver at the thought.

"What urgent discovery?" he asked, crossing the room to meet her. "You've located Moriarty?"

"I'm afraid not, Sir." Her voice was clipped. "I was told Mr. Holmes had left the flat. How long will he be away?"

"Two hours, roughly." John frowned at her, trying to read just how urgent this matter was. "Why does that matter? You could have called me. Or are we going to see Mycroft?"

"No, Sir, we are not."

She took a small mobile from her pocket, flicked her fingers across the keypad. John waited, his frown deepening, his bed still calling him. He imagined sinking under the covers and closing his eyes, and all at once whatever patience he had left snapped. Whatever news Williams had, she was taking her damn time in telling him, which meant that it couldn't possibly be so important that a text wouldn't have sufficed. He folded his arms, ready to raise his voice, ready to step into his military persona, when she lowered her phone and met his glare.

"We'll be ready in just a moment."

"We? Listen, I have... I am... Look, if there's something I need to know, will you please just tell me now and skip the mystery?"

"I'm very sorry, Sir, any second now-"

The front door downstairs opened with a creak and closed with a dull thud. John glanced towards it, scowled at Williams's expressionless face.

"For god's sake, who else is coming? Don't tell me there's going to be some kind of..."

His voice trailed off as he took a step towards the door, and behind him a soft click broke the heavy air. He turned and then lifted his hands, his eyebrows jerking upwards, his heart jolting in his chest. He looked from Williams to the small handgun pointing at his head and back again. Hundreds of questions roared through his head in a whirlwind, followed by one dead certain answer. John's legs felt numb. Strange, he had thought that when the moment came he would feel more scared. And yet now, all he could feel was a thick, suffocating sense of despair. A bug pinned to a cork board. He heard the stairs creak, heard footsteps pad gently into the living room. He imagined that he could hear the air moving silkily in and out of those lungs, see that pale hand tugging the tie straight... He didn't want to turn around. God, he didn't want to. And yet still, he felt his neck muscles pulling, he felt himself twitching towards the doorway.

When William's gun came down with a hard, resounding crack on the back of his head, he was almost grateful. Almost happy that he hadn't had time to take in that laughing grin, those wild black eyes before blackness closed over him. And yet as he fell into nothingness, he could have sworn he heard lilting, smirking words drum into his ears.

"Honey, I'm hooooooome..."

Sorry again about the delay with this chapter. Hope you enjoyed it.

Reviews are very welcome.

SUPRNTRAL LVR.