-ooo-

John Watson is snoring lightly, his blond hair contrasting against the green-browns of the velvet pillow he rests his head on. The rest of him has been disguised by a soft grey chequered blanket hours ago and thus remains without his knowledge. Close by, after a couple of hours nap, a stronger, more rested Sherlock has taken his place at the living room table, in front of the computer, sometimes tapping fast at its keys, sometimes just staring hard at the screen.

When Sherlock heard knocks on the exterior door from downstairs (it was Mary's rhythm) he was in one of his staring fits. The images in front of him had been provided ominously by Mycroft, when he venture to believe that his brother's grazed arm had been the consequence of him pulling himself in front of a shot aimed at John instead. Honestly, he knew very well it hadn't happened so. In fact, he knew it first hand, even if all had happened remarkably fast. What had Sherlock going through the footage provided from an awkward angle at the street was the mystery of how Mycroft had misread it so much. The grainy image revealed a much more frazzled Sherlock than he'd like to have recognised himself, entering the cafe, straight to the smaller figure of John (blond hair shining brightly at the electric lights of the cafe, asymmetrical black coat with just one shoulder patch – the one of his frail shoulder missing, how telling). The taller figure called the attention of the smaller one, before furtively looking around and reaching to grab the other man by the elbow (oh, Mycroft must have had a field day with that public display of proximity; that was what had him believe Sherlock already knew what would happen next, that's what made him believe that Sherlock was pulling John out of the way of a speeding bullet). The whole of the cafe occupants reacted simultaneously like a well rehearsed play, ducking down, throwing their arms to their heads, opening their mouths in (now silent) screams. The taller figure spun in place a bit as he fell to the ground. He never hit it though, for the smaller figure grabbed him tightly in his arms, nestled him in them, and protectively covered him with his own body from a second attack. Sherlock stopped the tape. He recalled too well what happened next, over a more intimate point of view than that of the camera.

The frozen image of John protectively embracing Sherlock, in complete disregard for his own life, made him shudder. In a sharp glance he stole a look of the man lying on the sofa. That computer image portrayed the one side of John Watson that truly and intimately scared Sherlock. (Selflessness.)

Mary was coming up the stairs now, and Sherlock quickly tapped the computer keys to change the image on the screen.

'Mary, welcome back', Sherlock offered with a kind smile. 'John will be very pleased to see you.'

She looked around in slight distrust. Why was he kindly smiling? They never smiled at each other anymore. Was there someone else in the room, was Sherlock suspecting John might actually been awake? Because John was snoring too well to be faking his sleep. What she didn't recognise was that Sherlock had been changed by the close proximity with that man.

She smiled back, to be on the safe side. 'You managed to prove him innocent in the end, Sherlock. He was right in trusting you so much.'

'Is that an apology for not placing enough trust in me?'

'We both know John trusts you too much, let's keep it at that.' There was no smile now.

'How was your exile, Mary?'

'Boring, predictable, the same old routine. And I've made it out just fine, unharmed. You didn't tell him, Sherlock', she wanted to hear him confirm.

'I've kept my side of the bargain, Mary.'

'And I kept mine. At a high price. Days without news of my husband, of the man I love.'

'We both know he's been collateral damage from the start. People were after you, not him. Separating you both was the only scenario that offered more safety to all of us, Mary. You can't argue with logic. Not when you are so good at it yourself. John, oh, I'd have a hard time reasoning with him, but you saw the reason, Mary.'

Her face was angered. This seemed to be the only thing that got her off from the calm cold logic conversations they shared, her love for John. Deep inside she felt that it betrayed her somewhat, made her more vulnerable. Sherlock now knew better - it made them stronger in new ways.

'Please note that John is staying here for the next days, Mary, until he chooses to go back to your house.'

She gave him a deathly stare. 'It's not fair, Sherlock.'

'Yes it is. You can stay here as well.'

'It's not the same, Sherlock.'

'If you're missing marital favours, I'll be sure to knock on the door before entering your room upstairs.'

'Now you're just being childish.'

'And you're being possessive.'

'He's my husband.'

'He wouldn't be, though, if he knew what I know, would he?'

Definitely no smile on Mary anymore. She finally stared at her husband, snoring against the warm pillows. Sherlock told her, realizing she hadn't asked:

'John's wound reopened at a time, due to physical exercise. We took care of it. It's healing up again, but I doubt it'll ever look good on his shoulder.'

'We need to get the person who did this to him.' She crossed her gaze with his at last. Common ground finally.

'I'm working on it.'

She smiled, breaking her rule. A cold murderous smile. 'What have you got, Sherlock?'

'A list of suspects, at last', and he handed her a handwritten piece of paper. 'They are all names from your past, Mary. You need to narrow this down for me.'

She glanced over the page, losing all colour from her face. 'How do you know about these people? They weren't on the flash drive.'

'Told you, he really didn't look at the flash drive.'

'You'd have made a copy.'

'I didn't.'

'I don't believe you'd miss the opportunity.'

'He asked me not to do it.'

'And you just complied?'

'Yes.'

'Against your curiosity?'

'Yes.'

She still looked suspicious. 'Were did you get these names?'

'From my brother, Mycroft.'

'Great', she was sarcastic, 'your brother knows your best friend is married to an ex-assassin. How sweet of you to keep it all in the family.'

'Please refrain from telling John that Mycroft knows. He suspects it, I evade it, and we prefer to keep it at that.'

'You two are far too intimate, sometimes', she let out, out of hurt.

'Don't fight me over him, Mary', Sherlock told her drily. 'There is no need. He loves you in a different way. And stop trying to be me so to get his full attention. It just throws him off.'

'I'll be darned if I'm ever taking relationship advices from you, Sherlock Holmes.'

He wasn't surprised, and just sighed. He had to try.

'Start with the last one on the list, Sherlock, he's the most vicious.'

'Will you tell John why that name on the list is after us?'

'I can't', she shook her head, unscripted tears erupting in her eyes.

'Fine, I'll keep it a secret too. But, for the record, if there's anyone who'd understand it'd be John.'

'Sometimes I wonder if you're just trying to break us apart, Sherlock. Telling John would be the worst thing I could do. He would never forget.'

She got up slowly, pondering: 'I have some things to do, I'll come back later. Please let me know if he wakes up in the mean time.'

'Will do.'

-ooo-

John woke up a few hours later. He thought the blanket must have come from nowhere and realized there were more people in the kitchen area, he could hear the homely noises they made. He got up to see who was there. Both Sherlock and Mary greeted his return, sited at the kitchen's table.

'Made you some pancakes, and all', she told John, in a sweet tone. 'Had to go shopping too, Sherlock's fridge was highly disappointing.'

John stood by the kitchen entrance a few seconds, numbed from sleep, probably. 'Yeah', he said at last.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, and without looking at Mary over his newspaper, reminded: 'Lactose allergy, Mary.'

John interceded at once. 'I'm sure that just for once I can...'

'I won't let you', Sherlock threatened in the same immobility. 'Nice gesture though, Mary.'

She snapped: 'At least I did something, haven't I, Sherlock?'

John halted then, confused: 'Are you two arguing because of me?!'

'Yes.'

'No.'

John's expression changed to a cold no-nonsense one. He reached out for the pancakes plate and hand it briskly over to Sherlock. 'You need to eat, have this. I'll make myself some toast, I can do it on my own, no one needs to take the freaking credits over it.'

They both stared quietly at his short tempered burst.

'We didn't mean to...'

'We really didn't...'

'Shush it. It's too early in the morning for this, anyway.'

Sherlock folded his newspaper slowly. 'John, it's four o'clock in the afternoon. Please have a sit, you might be a bit feverish again.'

John frowned at him but did sit down. (After all, he had said "please".)

'Why would I be feverish?'

'You are.'

'He is.'

'You don't seem to remember', Sherlock reported, 'that you have gunshot hole running air conditioning through your shoulder, but we do.'

'Great, scare him, won't you?' Mary snapped.

John closed his eyes for a second. 'I remember now, anyway. I'll eat something, take an antibiotic and rest some more', he doctored himself. 'Sherlock, remember what I told you once. If I'm not available, just take Mary with you. Please don't go out there blundering after the mastermind alone.'

'No', he said, picking up the paper again.

'Sherlock...'

'I mean I'm not going anywhere without you, John.'

'Oh... Thanks.'

Mary frowned.