-ooo-

When Sherlock pushed open the heavy cast iron door to return to the inside of the leaning tomb, after he placed the food order through his phone, he found John slumped, sitting over the coffin against the wall, deep asleep. Mary was leaning over him and jolted as she realized Sherlock had returned. A small gesture of her left hand could have gone unnoticed to anyone else, but not to the consulting detective. In an instant he understood she was hiding something up her sleeve. With one look at his sleeping friend the detective understood.

'How long have you been doing that?' he asked quietly, but Sherlock couldn't quite hide the tension in his throat, he was uncomfortable.

'Doing what?' she asked back.

'Drugging him so he can sleep the night peacefully.'

'I'm a nurse, Sherlock, I know what I'm doing', she defended.

'I asked you how long', he wouldn't let go.

'It's just sometimes. I've got these sleeping pills he's once been prescribed, and he needed to rest. This is easier than arguing.'

'You slipped them into his water bottle without his knowledge.' Sherlock took a step forward and grasped her wrist. He forced the tablet off her hand, all the while John was knocked out for the night.

'So, how was it this time? You kissed him to distract his attention from the water bottle?' She kept silent, watching him, as Sherlock checked John's vitals. 'It's probably been going a while now, but you haven't done this in Baker Street. You figured I would have noticed the drugged induced sleep... Do you really think this is for his safety, Mary?'

'I love him', she defended immediately.

'It's easier to hurt someone you love than someone you don't.'

She swallowed hard. 'I was afraid he'd go out there and get himself in trouble, you saw it too, didn't you? He had that resolution in his eyes, to keep us safe, and I needed to keep him safe.'

'Help me', Sherlock directed, sliding his healthy arm on his friend's back, grabbing him and pushing him gently over so he'd lie down on the wooden surface more comfortably.

Mary got a blanket spread over John, his breathing was deep but mechanic. She then unbuttoned the collar of his shirt to check the shoulder wound under the bandages. They were loving, but calculated gestures, commanding and dominating, as Mary stood stooped over her unconscious husband, and Sherlock had stepped back to watch them.

'At the first hospital', she stated to strike a conversation, 'they weren't very good were they? The oldest of these are double stitches, no one does those anymore...'

(An army doctor does, overseas.) Sherlock didn't explain, not this time. He realized that he wasn't letting Mary in anytime soon, her actions were a cold betray of John's confidence over and over again. A lopsided love that aggravated Sherlock the most because he would have done the same as a friend, long ago. But Mary was John's wife, and in that position he trusted her in a way that made her actions the more damaging. He didn't deserve that betrayal of confidence, not again, no matter how well intentioned her actions may have been. Sherlock regretted he couldn't wake John up and come clean about all he had witnessed. It wasn't the time or the place. Their combined efforts needed to be focused on saving John Watson right now.

-ooo-

'Why am I drinking a second cup of coffee, and why is Mary snoring?'

Those were the strange questions that first permeated John's sleepy brain as Sherlock kept insisting for John to stay awake and to discuss a plan of action. The first petrol lamps had been replaced with newer ones as the night outside the tomb had given way to the first lights of dawn.

'Must I be expected to answer your every question, John?' Sherlock diverted for the moment.

'I am sooo sleepy right now, it's not even funny...' he giggled before he could stop himself. Sherlock gave him an eye roll but he was smiling as well. John was one of the strongest persons he knew, but he also carried a lot of sad devastation inside. It was hardly visible unless you knew him well. Mrs H saw it and she worried, Greg saw it and he sympathised, Molly had only just begun to notice it sometimes. To see John lower his guard for a brief second and just giggle innocently had surprisingly become one of his friend's motives for joy. How would have he responded had Sherlock told him he had used Mary's own recipe on herself as a petty little time-out vengeance?... Yeah, he'd keep it a secret for now.

'Well, I'm a fugitive', John recovered. 'But you're not, Sherlock, and you have a case to solve, so crack on with it. I'll just stay here in your guest house, I promise I won't disturb the other guests tucked away in their "boxes", and hopefully you can get me out of here some time soon.'

'Really?' Sherlock tilted his head sideways.

'What?'

'You think I'd leave?'

'I know how it's all about the cases for you, it's your... thing.'

'John, listen to me: you're my people.'

'You mean you're not leaving?'

'I'm not leaving, John. Can you get that once and for all? It would really save us some time.'

'Why?' John asked slowly and deliberately, sounding almost suspicious.

'Well, time is a resource and though I grant you it looks like we have plenty of it right now, it's still sort of annoying (annoying in a good way!) to have to repeat myself when...'

'I mean: why do you stay? This is not your thing. You solve puzzles, it's all about the mental games. Why help me evade justice? What's in it for you?' John's blue eyes were troubled as he faced his friend's gaze with honesty.

'I told you. I will not leave you behind. It's not all about the cases, you got that wrong. Now, even though I understand this is going to be mixed messages, having said that, we really need to talk about the case and solve it.'

'Sherlock...'

The detective sighed. 'Yes, John...' In front of him, his friend was definitely fully awake at this point and was about to say thanks, he could see it. 'Don't say it out loud, please.'

'Why not? Why do we hardly do it?' (Say "Thank you" to one another.)

'Because then it becomes a social obligation, and somehow it fits into a category of politeness and it's none of that to begin with. I do it because you'd have done it to, and so it's even from the start. Do you understand?'

John nodded. Sherlock was like that. Advert to social conventions, mostly because he seemed to believe that they subverted the honest process that had set them in motion. John could live with that. Somehow, it was starting to make some sense to him too. Sherlock's madness was permeating into him.

-ooo-

Sherlock eventually phoned Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade at Scotland Yard. What he said to him was polite and distant, assuring the fine officer that his blogger was nowhere to be found and that he'd cooperate fully with the investigations, naming Dr. Watson's whereabouts as soon as he knew them. He also learnt that Mary's statement was wanted for routine purposes, since it was her husband that a neighbour seemed to have been able to describe to a T, holding a steely gun by the window.

All the while this conversation was being held, another was being had by texts, of course. Greg used his personal phone as he talked over on the land line, and Sherlock had the nerve to use John's phone as a backup for the texts.

Are you guys alright?

Yes. How bad is it? –SH

Not good at all. Witness places John there, firing a kill shot.

The body is gone but there is too much blood. Have to treat it as a homicide.

It wasn't you taking it, right?

Obviously not. I'm not into designing crime scenes, just studying them. –SH

Had to ask. What the hell went wrong, Sherlock?

One of my pawns misplaced itself and check mate. –SH

I'm not letting John go down for this. –SH

I'm doing what I can, but my hands are tied. Tell John I'm doing what I can.

He knows that, Greg. –SH

Tell him anyway. And keep him safe and invisible for now.

Fine. I'll bring you something from Russia. Mycroft is faking me there. –SH

Next time choose some place warmer.

You talk to Mycroft then. –SH

As both communications came to a halt, Sherlock was standing outside the leaning tomb, in a brisk cold morning. The moist air he had spoken had come out of his mouth in swirls. He was worried. He still hadn't a good plan, just a basic plan, and basic wasn't good enough lately.

Breakfast, he needed to get John breakfast, he thought, taking Greg's pleas of tending to John to heart. He couldn't keep ordering food around to a cemetery though, it would raise inevitable suspicions. And he despised the idea of abandoning the still highly volatile ex-soldier to his thoughts, he'd might get all selfless again and just turn himself in.

Sherlock sighed, letting all that moist foggy air out at once, and it felt painful to breathe it all that air back in at once, the cold and brisk grasping his insides, somehow making his bullet graze hurt because of it. He shook his head, trying to make it go away. He wasn't the only one in pain. John was in pain too. And now they were on their own, there would be no more pain killers for either of them. Back to basics, the least amount of stuff necessary, on the road and on the run. Could Sherlock take that pain? Yes, quite bearable as long as his arm kept still. But could John? His bullet had done far more damage to an already fragile area. Sherlock only hoped so, because his plan was a basic plan, not a good plan. He still didn't have a good plan, let alone a great one.

-ooo-

'Goodbye, Mary', John whispered audibly in her ear as they embraced tight. Sherlock diverted his gaze. Those were the things that you never say meaningfully out loud. If those turn out being the last words spoken, then they assume devastating proportions, and god knows Sherlock had regretted the one time he had broken this rule of his, because he knew how time had made them even more devastating.

But John wasn't thinking of such things, only Sherlock. So John kept adding 'Please be careful out there, it won't be for long.' She nodded, teary eyed. 'I'm so glad you've agreed to take Mycroft's offer of getting off grid. He's a snotty jerk, but you can trust him, after all he's the damned British Services and a Holmes by nature.' Behind them, Sherlock was not at all fazed by the earlier classification of his brother.

'Sherlock persuaded me, in the end', she admitted, in factual words but a very biased recount. He had very coldly blackmailed her to be precise. Three people on the run were just one too many. And he was probably still upset about the sleeping pills incident.

John lowered his voice even more. 'Please forgive me I wasn't able to keep you safe, Mary. Please forgive me for failing you.'

She pushed him tighter to her body, feeling guilty. He was blaming himself for leaving her, he didn't know (he couldn't know, she wouldn't tell him) that she was the primary target, she was the one that brought all that onto them. That first night he had been shot at Baker Street, he had been on the phone with her, and someone had listened in on that conversation, probably bugging her phone. That's how they knew where he was going to be. That ridiculous discussion about the sofa and his back. And the window crashing at Molly's lab? He had just texted her after leaving the police station, because she was worried about him, and he told her where they were going next. How could he blame himself for what she had brought upon him and Sherlock?

'Don't worry about me, I'm not their target, John, they'll leave me alone', she lied, masterfully done. Calm, nurturing, because she truly cared for him, and if telling him the truth wasn't an option, then she'd lie her way through appeasing him. He nodded, with a sweet expression in his eyes (honestly, he had probably forgotten the audience at this point, or for once he didn't care).

'All will be okay soon', he promised her before he let her go.

Mary hugged Sherlock quickly but sweetly, before pushing the door open to go away. 'Goodbye to you too, Sherlock.' (But she knew quite well his habits.)

'Goodbye, Mary.' (He knew she knew them.)

John didn't notice, pulling himself straight and clearing his throat as if it could clear the vulnerability off his system as well.

'And the rest of your plan, Sherlock?' he asked, keeping his back to his friend to hide his expressions at the moment.

'It's starting right now, John', he offered him action, because action was, at that point in time, the only thing that could seemingly mend John's heart and Sherlock knew him, because he knew him only too well.

-ooo-

John Watson had common features, apparently. Because as he walked the streets with Sherlock Holmes, every once in a while people seemed to recognise the detective and never him. Which in this case was particularly fortunate, being a fugitive from the police and all.

'I don't particularly like hats and it feels like a silly disguise', he vented.

His friend smirked. 'Helps with the cctv, it's just an added precaution. There is still only a Look Out notice on John Hamish Watson, you haven't been placed in the Terrorists List... I'd have recommended a haircut, but it's already too short. Or hair die, but you're painfully too blondish to get away with black hair. A wig, on the other hand, would...'

John cut him off, he knew he had deserved it because he had been complaining: 'Actually, a hat is just fine, now I come to think of it.'

'Great then.'

'You might want to wear a hat too.'

'Why?' he struggled to follow John's reasoning.

'Because you're with me.'

'No one is looking for me. And also you're always with several different people, John.'

'True, but you are almost only ever with me, Sherlock. How long till someone figures out that if they see you, and you're not alone, the guy in the funny hat must be me?'

'It's not a funny hat, it's a felt hat. It's... what I could find, unless you wanted the darned deerstalker.'

'No, no, just fine with this hat, on second thought.'

They kept walking, a few silent steps, before John noticed: 'I didn't mean you don't have other friends, Sherlock, because obviously you do, you know that...'

'I know what you meant. I'm usually found alone, I get that.' There was no hurt in his voice, he was stating a fact clearly. John still felt like he had crossed a line.

'And if you wanted, there are a lot of people who'd like to go to places with you, you know that.'

'Of course I do.'

'I've just always assumed you preferred to be alone most of the time.'

'Really?' This time Sherlock actually looked at him.

'You do tend to tell people not to speak or move because they are boring when doing so.'

'Yes, I see... Well, but they are, John!' he complained and John couldn't hide a grin.

'Thank you very much!' John replied light-hearted.

'What do you mean? I don't say that about you, John.'

'You don't?' he was actually taken by surprise. Sherlock smiled at his confusion, so apparent in his face. John never observed scientifically, he was really very bad at that, as Mycroft had been so fast to point out the first time they talked about John Watson. As much as he wasn't that great at deducting, John was just the person that Sherlock had come to find out he needed by his side in a case. And Sherlock wouldn't have traded him for anyone else with better observational skills.

'Police car up the street, tie your shoe and stay behind a few paces', Sherlock directed briefly. John would follow the lead promptly, and the police car would roll by them with only a faint recognition of Sherlock from the officers inside.

'You might want', Sherlock restarted the conversation when John rejoined him, 'to try to walk more loosely, John.'

John frowned in confusion. 'What do you mean?'

'We're not in the army, John.'

'I know that', John failed to grasp, 'so?'

'The hands behind your back thing, right now?'

'Ah.'

'And are you sure you can use your left arm freely again?'

'I'll be careful', John answered, placing his hands on his coat pockets.

'And you know, you can relax your posture a bit, John.'

'What do you mean?' he was confused again.

Sherlock smiled. 'Never mind.'

'Look here, if you want to tell me something, tell it to my face and...' He stopped short, Sherlock was actually giggling at him. And John giggled too. John had a misfortunate slip earlier and Sherlock had paid him right back. The funny thing was all those characteristics were painfully true. 'Fine... And where are we going, again?'

'To a better hide-out, John. To the Machine Room Under the Bridge.'

'Doesn't sound very top-secret. Which bridge is that?'

'That's the top-secret part, John. No one will ever find us there.'

'I'm flattered', John said after a few seconds of silence.

'Told you: you're my people, John.'

'You don't need to feel that you have to do this just because I told you a story about my time in Afghanistan.'

'Don't be an idiot, it doesn't suit you, John.'

This time John kept quiet much longer.