-ooo-

The police car was rolling through the streets of London quietly, with Greg at the wheel, Sherlock by his side and John at the back. The news of them being cleared by favour of the forensic evidence had come roughly at lunch hour and Greg had set off to get them straight away. As he drove them back to Baker Street (statements delayed till the next day as a special favour) he could notice how giddy and relieved Sherlock was in particular, even if he tried to avoid letting it show (and John was still as cool as a stiff cucumber, in the back).

'You were right, Sherlock. There were nitrates in the blood stream, and a very high dose at that. It changes everything', Greg noted.

'Does it?' a cold tense voice doubted from the back seat, and refused to say more.

'Of course it does.' He looked over at Sherlock and realized that he was allowing Greg to explain it all. 'You shot him, John, to defend Mary, right? The shot was possibly one of the best I've seen, when we factor the distance and the conditions. You manage to hit the shooter, just not fatally...'

'If it wasn't fatal, how come the police didn't pick up on that from the moment they found the body?'

'You did hit a kidney, I think. Internal bleeding, messy thing. Still a hell of a shot.'

Sherlock realized: 'The widest area in the body, that really was a pondered shot, John, and by the book.'

John interjected: 'There is no book.'

'Of course there is. You were trained to hit the torso, because it's easier than the head. It's your military training kicking in.' This time John kept silent, his jaw tightly clenched, a hint of a self-depreciative dark glow in his gaze.

Greg resumed: 'The shooter was not alone. The mastermind, as you like to call him Sherlock, was there. He couldn't risk this hired gunman to talk so he forced the nitrates drug on him. The shots fired had alerted the police so he knew he had to run. What he didn't know was if the poisoned shot man was going to live long enough to spill the beans, so he forced him out of there with him and pushed for a few blocks till he eventually left him behind to be found already dead... That's what happened, John.'

There was no response from the backseat. Sherlock added in a calm steady voice: 'The shot wasn't fatal, which means that you can get away with a self-defence story now. The real murderer is the man that poisoned the man you shot, he's the real reason the man died. That acquits both you and me, John.'

Greg added: 'We'll downplay your firearm skills as a lucky shot, John. It's easier to buy, too. Not a hand full of people I know could have done a shot like that on purpose...'

'For heaven's sake, the man is a doctor...' Sherlock came back.

'Someone has been selling great stories to the press...'

'Great sister you've got there, John...'

Greg turned more serious. 'The police can still tie John's gun to your other illegal stuff, though. Seriously, Sherlock? The greatest mind of the century and you never thought of changing guns every once in a while?'

'Easy to say now', he mumbled.

'Well, this case is so much bigger than those other ones that they can get stalled, I suppose.'

'So, can we use the gun again?' Sherlock asked hopefully.

'No!'

'Fine... John, I'll get you another one for your birthday.'

'I'll pretend I didn't even hear that', said Greg, pointedly.

'When is your birthday, again?'

'Well, it's better than the one you gave him last time.'

'I don't remember what I gave him last year.'

'I said "last time", Sherlock.' Another pointed look.

'Oh. Right, I wasn't here last year. What I meant is I don't remember the time before that...'

'A gun is hardly appropriate... but strangely adequate for once.'

Greg would drop them off by the door of 221, where Mrs Hudson already stood, smiling and embracing their return. Sherlock and John thanked him before exiting to the street. It felt oddly quiet and peaceful, like returning home.

-ooo-

221B Baker Street, living room. Dingy little place with the daylight flooding in a number of kick-knacks, mismatched items that altogether seemed to form a simile of a living space for some mad man. Cluttered, covered in dust, randomly ordered (or just plain messy according to the degree of honesty of the renter). Still, Sherlock would smile comfortably at the sight of the familiar dwellings, the best refuge of all in London. He looked behind him to assess John's intake. His friend had a smile on. One of those smiles that reminded him of a dazed child in utter happiness, a innocence driven smile that Sherlock only seemed to recognise out of the face of that one particular hardened person. Not all the old ghosts he carried or hardships recently endured had washed down that smile.

Behind them, by the door, stood Mrs Hudson. Her eyes had been set on Sherlock the whole time. She was expecting his complaints on the dust cleaning, on the coffee table being some mysterious two inches to the right, or something. She saw him scrutinize the interiors of the flat in one long glance, then look back on John. And she realized that John was long part of the list of Baker Street contents that made it complete in that mad man's eyes. She could have told Sherlock right then and there that John wasn't an item, to stop thinking he belonged in Baker Street, John had his own life now, that's what happens when you tragically disappear for two years... But she decided to wait for a time alone with Sherlock to have that conversation. John being there wouldn't help, with his bright eyed smile... He probably had missed it too, there was a fulfilment in John when he came around, like returning to your family's home after a hard time. And John didn't have much of a family but that one in Baker Street.

Mrs H had been there when Greg had phoned Harry Watson. The DI knew it had to be done, the newspapers were on the verge of printing the most awful things about John. She only heard Greg's side of the phone call, of course. Polite, confident, declaring his trust on John and his regrets on the present situation, a true gentleman. Greg never told Mrs H exactly what Harry had said. But his face was unfriendly when he hung up the call. Silently he faced Mrs H before cryptically summarising: 'Luckily he has us, Mrs Hudson.'

And then, of course, the next day the false stories on John were all over the cheapest newspapers. Sad stories on him being a criminal for hire that had set a trap on Sherlock. Some stories were twisted and hurtful, but Mrs H felt she needed to read them all, to keep them all under close check, to be herself a defender of the slandered man, if only the one of all the readers. John should know that at least someone out there knew they weren't true. No, not John, he really wasn't anything like that. A touch stiff, sure, and usually stone calm until he rarely lost his temper in short bursts that always ended abashed and apologetic. Definitely not a cold blooded murderer. (And she had known her fair share of those, mind you.)

There was one story in particular that shook Mrs Hudson's ground, though. It felt too personal, too knowledgeable of the Watson's family household. The reporter must have got information from a relative. About the loss of the parents, later brother and sister as orphans bouncing around distant relatives until they were old enough to be on their own. And that had suddenly slowed the world down for Mrs Hudson, as she lowered the paper. John, her John, Sherlock's John, bouncing around from house to house, not even old enough to be called a man yet, just a boy, no home to fall back on. And from there to medical college, and the army. In a way, still looking for belonging. Then to a nasty war, until he was injured and rendered useless for the ones who had been using his skills all along. Back to London all alone, a while later, Mrs H had met him and greeted him and Sherlock at the door, and saw nothing of this but a controlled stiff polite man with good manners waiting outside. "Mrs Hudson, this is Dr. Watson." But she had focused on Sherlock instead. She had secretly been scared he'd move out of Baker Street out of sheer restlessness. That never happened, of course. John had been introduced to a flat dominated by Sherlock's stuff. But then again, John never seemed to have much stuff of his own. A mug, a computer, some odd bits, some charity's shop clothes he'd pick up on his return to London. He was a man that hardly clung on to something material (much unlike Mrs H's husband, mind you). And now she understood why, reading John's story on a tabloid, leaked for money and jealousy. Mrs H was very much disgusted with Harry Watson and it was a good thing John's sister wasn't there at the time, or her ears would have turned very red indeed.

It all had changed, now. John had been cleared (John, a sniper for hire, really lame story; she pondered) and the two men returned home, where they belonged. Mrs H kept staring at the pair, with a warm smile on her face. Everything was going to be okay, now, she could tell.

And John was there. Sherlock was not alone, and that was very good for Sherlock. His mind could be a great one, but he was still very human and vulnerable to depressive fits (he called them being bored) when his mind lacked the challenges. Mrs H did what she could on those occasions to keep the genius child engaged, but John was the one that had always had the right touch for it. He knew how to work with Sherlock when he was being... problematic. He brushed off easily when Sherlock was being downright nasty to wear off the edge of his restlessness, because he could see, like she did, that he really didn't mean it. The two boys got along like they had known each other their entire lives, and now Sherlock really missed John not being around like he once had been. John Watson being there made Baker Street complete in Sherlock Holmes' eyes, Mrs H could see it as night from day.

John made an attempt to joke lightly: 'We keep forgetting to change the floor boards, Sherlock. It will spook the clients, I tell you.'

On the floor by the living room door, the red stain persisted gloomily.

'I might want those for an experiment. You don't mind I use your blood, do you?' Sherlock checked with a smirk.

'Just make it count, I won't offer anymore', John played along. 'I see you can say the word "blood" again.'

'Temporary aphasia, nothing to be ashamed off.' Sherlock's gaze was still on the floor boards. There really was a lot of it. In a short burst of blinded emotion he wandered how much John could have left in his body after all the blood spilling of the last few days. 'John, you should rest.'

'We both should rest', the medical man corrected. He was now in the kitchen, fighting silently with Mrs Hudson to gain control of the electric kettle.

'John, let me have it!' she demanded briskly, motherly. 'You don't need to do this yourself. Go and have a sit in your chair.'

Finally he gave in with a gentle smile. He turned to his friend and directed: 'Sherlock, go to your bed and get some sleep, we've earned a break.'

'And you?' he inquired childishly.

'I'd very much like to lie down a bit on your sofa.'

'Our sofa', he corrected for some reason. 'We have a deal, John.' With a smile he watched John move on to the sofa and holding his left shoulder he just lied down with his blondish hair over one of the larger pillows and his face turned away from them. Sherlock knew why John had chosen the sofa, instead of the empty bedroom upstairs. Because it kept him in the living room to check whether Sherlock would try to go to his computer and solve cases without him. There was a tinge of want on that direction for Sherlock, but his physical exhaustion pushed him to his bedroom instead. With a sweet short embrace of Mrs H, he retired to his bed with relief. (It felt really good to be home, the best refuge of them all.)