Massive thanks to Jude and Armada for helping and betaing.
Sherlock is fairly sure that Sarah will be angry-with him, certainly, with John, probably. Looking back, he is rather angry with himself. He should have known Winter would be the type to shoot first. Though the bullet had only grazed John, it wasn't for lack of intent, and Sherlock clocked Winter across the back of the skull-would have done more had John not stopped him.
"He's down, Sherlock; it's over."
"He shot you!"
"I'm all right. Damn it, Sherlock, look at me! I'm all right."
The steps up to the flat seem interminable, and John leans on him a little for support, each of them with an arm around the other.
"You sure you don't want to go to-"
"Sherlock."
It may be the fourth time they've had this conversation since the injury occurred.
They make it to the top and go in through the kitchen door, where Sarah is already waiting.
"Let's see," she says, gloves already on.
"It's nothing." John leans against the table and disentangles himself from Sherlock. Sherlock, for his part, can't seem to let go of John's hand.
Sarah ignores John's protest. "Trousers off, please."
The professional tone of her voice sounds cold, and Sherlock's eyes leave John for a moment to look her over. Her eyes are focused on John's leg, on the four-inch-long gash along his thigh, fully revealed as John drops his trousers on the kitchen floor. John's fingers recapture his as Sarah pulls a chair over and begins to gently examine the wound. Sherlock finds he barely recognizes her, this woman who loves John, who accepts Sherlock, who solves their problem. Here, now, she is Doctor Sawyer, and the difference is tangible.
John, though, continues trying to reassure her. "See? No big deal."
"Yes, we all know how manly you are, Mr. Hour-long-soak with lavender candles," Sarah answers, but without a smile, and Sherlock wonders what will happen when the doctoring is over. He feels a flutter of tension in the fingers intertwined with his and knows John is worried about the same.
John stops arguing after that, and Sarah works thoroughly, efficiently. She adds the final dressing, taping it down loosely, and then stands.
Sherlock watches her, notes the tension in her shoulders, the snap of latex as she pulls off the gloves, but John is the expert on women-Sherlock has no idea what to expect. A look to John reveals that he is just as helpless; John's face is all apologies, his mouth half open to voice them. But Sarah speaks first.
"When you texted me," she begins, looking at her feet. "I called Lestrade, I needed to know-"
She swallows and Sherlock nearly startles when she looks up suddenly, directly into his eyes. "He told me what happened," she says.
Sherlock can't speak.
Sarah's professional facade, so steady until this moment, collapses; her eyes shine and she bites her lower lip before stepping closer to Sherlock. She rests her hand on his free one.
"Thank God you were there." She leans in on tip-toe and kisses his cheek in a flash before stepping back, retracting her hand, swiping away a tear from her face.
Sherlock blinks. Feels John's fingers tightening around his as Sarah sinks against John, her cheek pressed against his jumper, her ear nearly over his heart. John's hand comes up to stroke Sarah's hair, settle around her shoulders, and Sherlock wonders if he should look away, does look away when John drops a kiss on the top of her head.
Her sniff draws his attention and she is looking at him again, eyes clear and concerned.
"You okay?"
"Me?" Why would she care about him?
"Were you hurt?" she persists.
He feels slow, blinking at her before he can answer. "No. No, I'm fine."
"Good," Sarah says. She reaches out a hand to him, and without thinking he takes it, her fingers small and cool in his grip.
John is looking at their hands, Sherlock can feel him looking-it feels like steam, like sunlight-and he wills John not to say anything soppy, to just let it be.
John says nothing, but inclines his head towards Sherlock's, a motion Sherlock automatically sinks into now, dipping his chin into the crook of John's neck. He feels John press a kiss against his temple, squeeze his hand, and Sherlock wants to both run away and stay forever.
x-x-x
Two weeks later, their lives continue to intertwine. Sarah stays over a few nights a week, picks her way among the web of connections John and Sherlock have woven between them, spins new threads of her own. John is all open arms. He makes spaces for her, figuratively, literally, while Sherlock presents test after test to be sure of her.
Small floral bag in hand, Sarah goes to stand next to Sherlock where he works at the desk, laptop open. John looks up over the newspaper from the other side of the desk, but she's not come for him.
"Sherlock."
Without sparing her a glance, Sherlock answers. "What?"
"We had an agreement."
Sherlock says nothing, and Sarah suspects the genius knows exactly what he's done.
She drops the cosmetics bag on the keyboard of the laptop. Sherlock's fingers freeze over the keys and then he turns his head to her, glowering beneath lowered brows.
"We agreed, no going through my things, and yet my eyelash curler is missing."
"If you can't keep track of your things, it's hardly my fault-"
John shifts in his chair, is about to speak in her defense, but without breaking eye contact with Sherlock she holds up her palm up to John, stilling him.
"The implement in question is currently in the rubbish bin under the sink, clamping together what appear to be toenails."
Sherlock presses his lips together. He switches tactics, giving her a false smile. "You don't need it; you never curl your eyelashes-"
Sarah is firm. "Not the point."
"It was an important experiment, and they were just the right size-"
"Also not the point."
"Look, if you, as a doctor, cannot understand the importance of conducting-"
Sarah is Gibraltar. "Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock Holmes closes his mouth.
"You will get yourself to Boots and buy a replacement by this time tomorrow."
Narrowing his eyes, Sherlock attempts to put her off one more time. "Or what?"
Sarah crosses her arms. "Or I'll invite Mycroft to come round for tea."
Eyes wide, mouth gaping, Sherlock is aghast. Sarah simply stares at him with one eyebrow raised until he closes his mouth, turns away.
"Fine," he grinds out, and she plucks the bag from the keyboard and walks away, towards the bathroom.
She can't resist looking back as she reaches the kitchen, and she catches Sherlock staring over the desk at John, who, very bravely, lifts the newspaper and hides from both of them.
x-x-x
Two months later, they've found a rhythm. Sarah stays over weekends and sometimes a bit during the week as well. John tidies the kitchen more than he used to because he likes to cook with Sarah and she has strong feelings about food safety. Sherlock's testing abates as he studies Sarah, finds the edges of her.
When John brings up the idea of asking Sarah to move in with them, Sherlock surprises him by agreeing.
But the fact is, Sherlock feels something, something both fluttery and solid, at the thought of the three of them sharing 221b. He thinks it might be happiness.
Sherlock hears Sarah and John come home, all energetic steps and panting breaths after having spent the morning running in the park. They burst into the kitchen from the landing with waved greetings, and Sherlock barely looks up from the scope. They are ridiculous and rosy-cheeked and she slaps John's arse playfully as he hustles to claim the shower.
John disappears into the bathroom and pipes rumble and Sherlock estimates he has six and half minutes.
He waits until Sarah gets herself a glass of water. She downs half of it in one go, and then Sherlock looks up at her.
"So."
Sarah narrows her eyes at him. "So?" she repeats, but he only waits as comprehension blooms across her features. "Oh. Yes. He asked."
Gaze lasering in on hers, Sherlock dips his chin. "And you said no."
Sarah blinks. "I didn't say no."
"You didn't say yes."
Sarah looks away. Drinks more water. Sets the cup on the table.
"It's not that simple. Living here-it might create more problems than it solves," she says.
"Very reasonable concern."
She nods.
"But not actually what you're worried about."
Her eyes snap back to his and her chin lifts. "Oh?"
"John's easy to live with. You're easy to live with. I've never seen two people be more agreeable, more natural with each other than you two."
He stands, body turned away from her because he can't look at her for the next bit.
"I'm the problem."
Unsettled already, and only partly through his script, Sherlock strides abruptly away, into the sitting room, halting to stand at the far window. He hears her small gasp, hears her follow behind him.
"You're not a 'problem', Sherlock," she says, her voice soft as she stops a few feet from him.
Sherlock says nothing.
"And John and I are hardly perfect, as you well know."
He turns his head halfway towards her. "So why not say yes?"
She moves closer and leans against the desk in such a spot that it will be impossible for him not to see her.
"I don't know, exactly. It feels like a huge step, and yes, it's partly because of you. This is your home, yours and John's. It's hard not to feel like I'm invading, somehow."
"You're not. You've been invited."
"I know, and it means so much to me that the two of you want me here," she says, eyes and voice earnest. Her hand comes up to tuck a stray lock behind her ear. "But, perhaps selfishly, I want it to be for the right reasons."
Sherlock slides his hands into his trousers pockets. "And what are the 'right' reasons?"
"Love. Not fear. I wouldn't want either of you to be asking me because you're afraid it won't work otherwise; I am committed, to both of you, whether I live here or not."
She waits, and he can hardly think of what to say, the thoughts jumbling up in his mind: don't make it so complicated, he loves you, you love him, I love him, just do it, make him happy, it's simple. But he knows what she's waiting for. He doesn't know how to give it to her.
The moments pass, and he finally gives it words. "It's not fear."
It's the best he can do, and he prays that she will understand him, that she'll extrapolate if not A, then B.
She waits a long moment as well before answering. "Good."
Terrified, he looks down at the windowsill. "The . . . tests . . . were never meant to make you leave."
"I know," she says, and he's alarmed to hear her close to tears. "I never thought they were."
He can sense her wanting to reach out to him and can't decide if he's disappointed when she doesn't.
"You're just protecting him," she says. "You love him."
"Yes," he answers immediately.
"And you enjoy pushing people, finding their limits. I'm an experiment in a lot of ways," she says, and he can hear her smiling beneath the words.
He finally looks over to her properly, a small smile playing along his own lips. Her face is open, accepting, and he feels the urge to reassure her.
"A very interesting experiment."
Her smile widens, and Sherlock feels oddly like reciprocating when he realizes how quiet it is in the flat. A shape in his peripheral vision catches his attention.
"Big compliment, that," John says from the glass door near the kitchen.
Sarah turns to look, surprised. "Weren't you in the shower?"
"Forgot my towel," he answers, gesturing with it in his hand.
"How much did you hear?" Sherlock knows his voice sounds calm, but he can't quite look at John directly yet.
John forces the issue, walking forward and into Sherlock's line of sight, stopping next to Sarah. "Since the bit about the right reasons."
They both gaze at him, and the look of love on John's face, the way Sarah smiles up at him, it's suddenly too much. Sherlock slides his hands out of his pockets and clasps them together in a final sort of way.
"Yes, well." He begins stalking over to the coat rack, pulling on the Belstaff. "Would love to stay and have you both moon over me like puppies, but-" He fixes the scarf around his neck. "-Molly's got a particularly interesting case of post-mortem amputation for me."
"Might need this then," John says, holding up the magnifier Sherlock has left on the desk.
"Yes, thank you." He strides back over, taking it from John's outstretched hand. Their fingers brush together in the exchange, and the fluttery, heavy feeling comes back, a great bird trapped in his chest. On a wild impulse, Sherlock gives in to the sentiment assailing him. He grabs John by the neck and kisses his forehead with a loud smack, then leans over to Sarah and bestows the same on her.
"Don't wait up," he says, relishing the look of surprise on both their faces as he sails out the door and down the steps.
Only one chapter left to go, dear readers. Thank you so much for sticking with this fic-I love it and your lovely comments more than I can say.