-ooo-

Sherlock was leading the nervous trio over back alleys and dingy streets. Silently, furtively, they crossed yards and kept well away from the main streets where the police might be on the lookout for them. John had to be protected, he had only executed what all three of them had the resolution to do, in legitimate self-defence of their team (was it really self-defence if they had provoked it?; John would have probably disagreed at the end of Sherlock's plan had it been successful, but he couldn't have denied it to be effective). But the police might not understand self-defence now. John would be thrown in the slander while the investigation proceeded, a good lawyer might bail him out at first, but then the other accusations of breaking and entrance and other misdemeanours would catch up with him, would throw doubt on the legitimate cases they had solved, sleazy lawyers would set the criminals they had caught free, and all the while John would be healing a twice shattered shoulder in a cold small prison cell, next door to the criminals he had contributed to incarcerate, weak and defenceless against their attacks out of vengeance. The bars holding John in would be the same holding Sherlock and Mary out, he'd be in deep danger, completely vulnerable and alone. Sherlock was sure he'd hold his own for quite a while, but at any slip up of attention, a trap could be set in motion and be the end of John, and Sherlock wouldn't have that.

The only alternative now was to keep going, solve the case, give enough time to sow doubt in the criminal investigation procedures, and wrap it up in something altogether bigger and more important so to blind the police. A cold reasoning plan had to be created and executed, but it could only happen once they've established a safe refuge.

'Sherlock, this is a cemetery!' John's exhaustion might be regressing him back to stating the obvious like an ordinary person, Sherlock noticed.

'I know', he assured him it was part of his plan. 'Come this way.'

'This is your cemetery, Sherlock.'

'Mine?' he didn't quite grasp, then 'oh'. 'I suppose so, so sorry about that again. We're not here for the sightseeing. We're here for the Leaning Tomb of The Poet.'

'What is that?'

'The name the kids used to have to a very specific tomb in this cemetery of a Edwardian poet. It was believed to be haunted, which, of course, is the best way to keep people out when one is looking for a specific tomb to have has a hideout.'

'A hideout?' it seemed to be Mary's turn to repeat the obvious.

'One of my favourites.'

'How many do you have?' John asked him. He evaded a clear answer.

'A few might come in handy every once in a while.'

They were now in front of a clearly leaning to the side tomb, surely no bigger on the inside than a very small living room. Its stone walls were heavily decorated with masonry columns, arches, flowers, angels, and a variety of mosses and cob webs. At the front, the heavy rusted cast iron door seemed too heavy to give way to them, locking the tombs secret contents in a timeless suspension.

'How are we supposed to get in?' Mary verbalised.

Sherlock raised his hand to a stone rose to the left and pressed its centre hard. Immediately the cast iron door began to move aside. 'Extraordinary', John whispered, and Sherlock smiled.

'Easy. Shall we get in? There are petrol lamps to our right in a shelf...'

-ooo-

John was there, and that was good enough for Mary, at this point. John Watson, the ex-soldier, the GP doctor, the side-kick detective, the husband; he was many things to many people, but to her he was a solid reasonable loving man that made everyday life make sense again. He was the affection, the care, the loyalty at the end of a long day, that made it worthwhile to return back home. To be plain and ordinary after most of her life spent being, well, a criminal for hire by governments and rogue agents alike, sometimes playing them both at the same time. Something had made her change, a personal heavy twist departed her from what she had known as the normal life for herself. And despite all the faith John had in her heart, Mary knew how close she had been from returning to her past ways.

Fate had it that she would meet John, and instantly she was drawn to his nature. There was something in John Watson that attracted the lost souls of those who were beyond redemption, she faced, as she realized Sherlock must have felt the same about John. Today, Sherlock still wouldn't let go. He could let go. Mary would care and protect for John. Keep him from any harm in the world. Why wouldn't Sherlock let him go? He had tried once, after the wedding, with disastrous results for the both of them. They had become this unit, this partnership that found its own meaning and fuel in each other.

Despite appearances Mary wasn't too fond of this need they had for each other. But she had come to accept it instead of fighting it. John would never let Sherlock go, he cared too much for his friend's safety and well-being (he still sent Sherlock messages on a regular basis, even from his twelve hour medical professional shifts, remembering him to eat properly and throw away the remains of the oldest body parts experiments). And Sherlock had learnt to back off on the nights he could sense John and Mary were going to engage in something only the two of them were a part of (though of course Sherlock could deduce more about it the next day than John would ever be comfortable thinking about). Early on, Sherlock had once tried to interrupt one of those moments, he wanted John to leave immediately to be a helpful hand in a scientific experiment in Baker Street's kitchen. Mary had taken hold of John's phone before John had known about it and biting her lip she had texted back, without his knowledge: "He's going to be a bit tied up tonight - Mary". She wasn't even sure Sherlock had in him the ability to fully understand the sassy interpretations of the message, or the capacity to run with it. She had been wrong, she supposed, as she received back the words "Don't strain his left shoulder - SH". It had been her turn to feel awkward. She hastily deleted the conversation of John's phone, before he returned to her side, innocently. There was no tying anyone up that night for that matter, Sherlock must have deduced as much the next day and didn't bring anything up in his awkward "not good" conversations, and Mary started to resent Sherlock's uninterrupted deductions of John's life for the moments when the camaraderie trio should be a private duo. John was kept oblivious to all of this, of course. He wouldn't understand why his best friend and his wife were keeping tabs on their influence on him.

That night John Watson had become a fugitive, Mary wished they could go back to being the duo, that Sherlock would let John in her hands alone. After all, it had been Sherlock's miserable plan that had driven them to that impossible situation, and she blamed him in every glance, every look they shared.

-ooo-

Sherlock kept shooting secret worried glances at John, without his knowledge. However, it wasn't John that he was mostly concerned about, but Mary.

Sherlock and John could face anything while working together, they have built a long deep trust in each other, an intimate knowledge that could only come to people who had their lives in each other's hands over and over again to the point where the trust was full, complete, and unmentionable. If it came to it, Sherlock knew he'd give his life for John's because John's was more precious to him than the unreasonable guilt of following the self preservation instinct and having to carry on afterwards, alone. And he didn't find this reasoning remotely noble. John had done it first. Offered his life to save Sherlock's. Only priority for Sherlock before that moment ever came was to find a third option that kept them both alive and healthy, in good old fashioned common sense.

Mary, on the other hand, had never truly fitted in their unit, despite John's efforts. She was a partner in crime in every dinner or daily situation. But when confronted with action she always separated herself and flied solo. It was both her nature and her training. John kept inviting her in on the parts of their cases that presented less danger, because he believed she had chosen to leave Danger behind. He was sure she still enjoyed the process anyway and he had pushed her in on multiple occasions, when a female accomplice was called for, or even a nurse. Mary had faked reservations, as if all that was behind her. But Sherlock had read something entirely different in her body language as soon as the plan was in motion. That was her element and she had never left it. She went at it with the confidence of a regular player.

-ooo-

John was strangely pumped up. All the exhaustion and pain from the last days had disappeared all of a sudden. He wanted a plan and something to do, he wanted to get his hands dirty and fix everything, he was ready to embrace danger for the much anticipated pay-off. For a second he could recognise logically that his mind set was a dangerous one, pushing all reasonability out of the window, wanting to throw himself head first into action, but he'd brushed it off. It was about time everything got fixed. Sherlock had been targeted, Mary had been targeted, it was too much, they had messed up with the wrong soldier, those two were under his protection. John was even ashamed he had let it go so far as he did. Only solution now was to fix it. Fix it all. Take hold of a victory.

'What's the plan, Sherlock? We need a plan', he'd press his friend twice in the space of a few minutes.

Sherlock looked over at him before he'd answer. He saw John's feverishly bright eyes, the left hand that was half hidden in the fabric holding his arm to his chest was shaken by tiny jerks of electricity. This time John wasn't even hiding it, by shaking the hand or taking his other hand over it. It was like John hadn't noticed it yet, as he pierced Sherlock with a dangerous look in his eyes. All he cared about was a plan and a chance to dive in the action.

'Nothing, John. Not now, not yet. We need to rest first.' (You need to rest, to switch off.) 'We found a hiding spot, we can spend the night here, regroup, restart tomorrow with new energy.' Sherlock's voice was low and persuasive, has he took upon himself the protecting role.

'No.' John shook his head, stubbornly. 'Whatever is your plan, it's going down tonight, Sherlock, I can guarantee you that much.'

'No plan tonight, only tomorrow.'

'Don't do that to me, Sherlock.'

'Do what?'

'Keep secrets from me. I know you have a plan. You always have a plan. Hell, you always have multiple plans going on at the same time.'

Sherlock couldn't suppress a smile fast enough. 'True. But not tonight, John. You need to trust me.'

Mary tried to intervene. 'John, we all need a rest, and it's late. We're both tired. Let's give Sherlock a break as well, he did get shot just over a day ago.'

John shuddered with the realisation of the meaning of her words. She was right, Sherlock needed a break. 'Oh, yes, of course', he back down in words, but he still looked bright eyed to Sherlock and his twitching was starting to slide the arm rest fabric off its correct position.

'Let us order some take away', Sherlock suggested, picking his phone.

John frowned. 'We're taking refuge in a tomb at a cemetery. Do you really think they'll bring food out here?'

Sherlock frowned in his turn. 'They did the last time.'

Mary fought to swallow her laughter down.

'Fine...' John gave in, looking around for a place to sit. He only found ornamented coffin cases and eventually sat on the edge of one of those, trying to respect it but at the same time use them as much needed furniture.

'Pizza?' Mary suggested, not fazed at all by the current circumstances.

'With no cheese? I think I'll pass, due to John's new found allergy to lactose-based products.'

'What allergy?' John protested.

'Think I wouldn't have noticed your food choices all the time you were at Baker Street?' he looked down on his friend. John gave in with a sigh.

'It's not even important. And why would you monitor my food choices, anyway? Can't you ever shut down your detective skills?' he protested without heart.

(You were shot, John, and when you came back home you didn't eat. I monitored everything you ate, and how much of it, to make sure you kept yourself well. Isn't it what you always do for me as well?)

'Something else, then', Mary said, taking a seat as well. 'It's going to be a long night.'

Sherlock leaned over one of the other coffins and opened it. To everyone else's surprise it contained blankets, warm clothes, water bottles and a few other precious commodities.

'You really thought this place through', John complimented, despite himself, 'this is amazing, Sherlock.'

The detective pretended not to hear, but he had some trouble pretending he hadn't enjoyed the words, the amazed childlike smile, the selfless happiness it contained. John was like that, and Sherlock had never quite grown accustomed to it, and to how much he secretly enjoyed it.

'Meretricious, really.' And Mary looked surprised that Sherlock wouldn't jump at that compliment with his typical arrogance.

He took the phone up to his ear and realising there was no reception inside the thick stone walls, he stepped outside for a couple of minutes.

John was starting to calm down, drinking in the eerie but beautifully mastered atmosphere of the tomb. The petrol lamps flickering the light against the walls, the blankets warming them despite the damp thick stone walls. It was a high ceiling cramped space, but it also felt like the last refuge from the world. John could understand how Sherlock had created that space for such an occasion. Surely just for himself, but now he had opened it to John and Mary, to keep them all safe, so maybe it could really all wait until the morning. And Mary was there, sweet Mary, safe, and giving him a special look as she came closer. He kissed her briefly but sweetly, trying to reassure her that all was going to be alright.

A/N: The writer (me) admits that she may be a bit hard hearing. Not sure if in the televised series Mycroft says the "Leading Tomb", or "Leaning Tomb", as one of Sherlock's hideouts. It was enticing anyway, so that didn't keep me from elaborating on it. Figured the leading tomb can also be leaning. -csf