-ooo-

John would spend the rest of the afternoon sleeping the medication off, oblivious to Sherlock's work on the case from the safety of his computer, and with Greg Lestrade's assistance by (his new) phone. In fact, he'd miss out on all of that, and on Mrs Hudson often coming up to smother Sherlock with tender loving care and prays that he wouldn't overexert his hurt arm. Sherlock would smile, and watch her spread the chequered blanked back over John at the sofa many times (that in his sleep he would shrug off every time).

Dinner time would come uneventful, but with a touch of homeliness, as Sherlock, John, Mrs H and Mary took seats at the crowded kitchen table. To the first three it felt like old times indeed, with the added bonus for John of feeling like the complete package of a family as Mary stood there as well.

John was the first to get up from the table, requesting Mrs H to leave it all there, he'd take care of the mess in the morning. She told him off. He insisted. She threatened him without sincerity. Sherlock smirked. As soon as John was up the stairs to his old bedroom, Sherlock added from nowhere: 'You'd better refrain from further activities with him tonight, Mary'.

'Sherlock', she politely called his name in a question.

'He's in no condition for marital favours yet.'

She widened her eyes. That was way out of line. Mrs H intervened: 'We don't talk about those things, Sherlock dear.' Nothing seemed to surprise that woman, Mary glared.

'Just trying to defend John.'

'Not exactly defenceless', Mary argued back.

'Well, if he starts vomiting or gets dizzy...'

She tried to kill him with a death stare. 'We're not going to...' she interrupted, tense.

'Oh, then why didn't you say that from the start? You might have saved me the time and the embarrassment.'

'You, embarrassed?'

John came back at that point, innocently oblivious. 'What did I miss?' Funny, Sherlock thought, how he had picked up on something right away.

'Nothing, dear', Mrs H told him, 'just our Sherlock being Sherlock.' And John smiled softly.

'Well, in that case I think I'm off for the night... Thanks again for letting me crash in, Mrs H.'

'I'm glad to have you over, make sure you keep the heating on all night', she mothered him. He'd still glance at Mary but realized she wasn't going up just yet. That felt odd. Not that she'd not be as tired as him. Just that she seemed more distant upon their return, more engaged in petty small fights with Sherlock, rather than spending time with him. Or maybe it was all in his mind. He was a tad tired, after all.

'Night, y'all', he wished as he left.

Sherlock decided 'I'm off to take a shower' before the kitchen table mess could be taken upon him.

Not even five minutes later, Mrs H came up to Mary with a couple of cups of nice tea, handing her one of them. Then she took a seat in front of her, as they shared the chairs by the fireplace.

'He's being insufferable', Mary complained tiredly, out of John's chair.

'Who, Sherlock? Well, you did shoot him, dear. It gives him the right to do whatever he likes.'

'Mrs Hudson?' she was genuinely shocked.

'Sorry, dear, but Sherlock is my boy, and sticking by his side on this one. Besides, he's just trying to get to you. Just ignore him and it'll go away.'

'He's coming between me and John.'

'He's really not. Like I said, brush it off and it'll go away.'

'He told John not to eat my pancakes!' she blurted out, ignoring the fact that the woman next to her had showed her loyalty to the other side and a wish to end the conversation, albeit politely.

'John has this allergy to milk, it's really not Sherlock's fault...'

'It's to all lactose products, Mrs Hudson.'

'Well, then, how in the world can he eat pancakes?'

Mary was about to scream her lungs off. Instead she took a few deep breaths and got up. 'I'll just pop upstairs, to see if he's okay.'

'I'm sure he is. Or he'd have called Sherlock for help.'

Mrs H saw Mary leave the room, fuming and puffing. She had to hold a giggle. It was a bit evil but it was fun. It had started with a small revenge on her shooting Sherlock (that was a nasty habit, really) and a reminder to give John some space (he was far too kind to tell her himself to back off once in a while, always trying to pacify everyone).

Sherlock came out of his shower at last, hair still damp, fully clothed with pant trousers and shirt, even that late at night. He was really hansom. And slightly vain, too, like all young people are. 'Want a cup of tea, dear?'

He smiled at the sight of her in his chair. 'I think we drove the Watsons off, Mrs H.'

'Then it's probably time I'm off too, a woman of my advanced age... Just, Sherlock, dear...'

'Hm?'

'Don't stay up late, working on the case. John would worry about you not resting enough.'

'I'm fine.'

'Sherlock, he'd blame himself for your exhaustion.'

'That hardly makes any sense!' And yet, it's so John-like that Sherlock promises: 'Won't stay up past midnight.'

Mrs H smiles and leaves for the night.

-ooo-

Despite Sherlock's good intentions, midnight comes and goes, and dawn comes and settles into full blown morning light across the Baler Street's living room, to find Sherlock pacing over the carpet in circles. Brooding over papers filled with diagrams, photographs, maps, firearm catalogues and posted notes on the side.

'Sherlock...' John worried, coming downstairs first, still in pyjama bottoms and a simple t-shirt, messy hair and mismatched coloured socks (one a caramel yellowish and the other a burgundy red; definitely Mary's influence). 'Have you got any rest?'

Sherlock shots a glance at him, then at his wristwatch. Before he can say anything he knows he has given himself away. 'I'll retire early today', he negotiates.

'Fine, you can go as early as right now', John snaps angrily at him, as a commanding Captain.

'I see you're feeling better', Sherlock is not fazed at all.

'Yeah, all cleared of any sign of trouble', he agrees back to his normal voice. Then he raises it up again: 'If I ever catch you doing another sleepless night just after being shot...'

'Grazed. Don't feel guilty, please, I had no intention of staying up, it sort of happened.'

'Who said anything about guilt?' John asked, diverting his gaze through the room.

'Mrs H. She explained it to me.'

'Damn it. Okay, I admit. I feel guilty.'

'Don't, I won't do this again, and I feel fine.'

'We both know what "fine" means.'

'"Fine" means "tired but kicking along", right? Well, that's exactly what I mean. You can keep an eye on me while we have breakfast and I tell you all about my new plans.'

John finally gave in. 'Into the kitchen and you have to eat everything I tell you', he commanded. Sherlock smirked. Captain John Watson. Mismatched coloured socks and all (that was probably Sherlock's fault, when he packed him the overnight bag), he was still strangely impressive and incredibly serious.

Coffee steaming hot and toasts ready to pop up, John was standing by the open fridge, peering inside. 'Sherlock, where's the butter, the milk?'

'You can't have them.'

'I know that. But you can. Where are they?'

'I threw them out', he shrugged. 'Didn't want you making some mistake.'

'Sherlock!?'

'What you wanted them for, anyway? Science?' John frowned at him, only to understand he is honestly asking if it was for some experiment, he's not rubbing it in on John.

'Breakfast for Mary. Thought she might enjoy it.'

'Oh', he pondered for a second. 'Well, she'll need to get used to your allergies, you share a home.'

John shut the fridge door too strongly (home habit) and got back to the kitchen table just by the time the toasts came up. Sherlock shared them silently between them as John refilled the toaster. None of them found it weird that after years apart, their domesticity was still so well-aligned.

'Greg will come in before nine, John.'

'Good... But we could have gone to the Yard ourselves.'

'Didn't know if you could go out yet when I arranged it yesterday. No point in changing it now, he must be' Sherlock glanced at his watch 'coming up five blocks away.'

'Right... How long would you have stayed indoors, postponing your plans, waiting for me to be healthier?'

He shrugged. 'Terribly sorry, but no more than four days. Perhaps five. No more than five, I think. I had to weight in the fact that the end resolution of our case was as healing to you as your long naps and medications.'

John took another bite at the empty toast. 'That long then?' he seemed surprised about five days, not about Sherlock having pondered it scientifically. Sherlock frowned at the question.

'Told you, John, you're my people... How long would you last?' he sipped his coffee cup (horrible without milk, alas).

'Two weeks, I think', John said like an unimportant data.

'I'm still learning.'

'You're my people too. Actually, you already know it. You said it yourself.' Sherlock smirked at his words. John pretended not to notice or he'd might get too cocky.

John sipped his coffee and wondered: 'What did you tell Mary yesterday? She's pissed off with you, Sherlock.'

'Told her not to share marital favours with you yet.'

John slowly raised his eyes from the cup onto his friend. 'Yeah, that might have pissed off anyone... Why did you want to annoy her, then?'

Sherlock smirked, John had seen right through it. 'She wanted to take you home, earlier that afternoon.'

'I'm not a piece of property.'

'My point exactly.'

John sighed, he doubted Sherlock had got the right "point", but it was pointless. And it made him happy even if he didn't want to admit it, to see those two bicker like two loving brother and sister.

The toasts popped and once again they repeated the routine of sharing and refilling.

'So, you think you know who the mastermind is, Sherlock?'

'Yes', he retorted confidently.

'And the why?'

Sherlock didn't know what to answer. He didn't want to lie openly to John, but he knew John would be too hurt if he knew what Mary had been keeping from him.

'No, maybe Greg can help us with that', he ended up lying, and he didn't enjoy it.

John sipped his coffee slowly. 'Why did you just lie? Will you ever explain it to me?'

Sherlock almost chocked on his own coffee, startled that John had seen right through him. Before he could answer he got lucky and the exterior door bell rang. 'I'll get it, must be Greg', he quickly took advantage of it. John let it slide this time, without looking up from his toast.

Greg and Sherlock came up immediately, John was already getting another plate for Greg and a cup of coffee. 'Have a seat, Inspector', Sherlock invited, sitting as well.

'Thanks, guys. You two feeling better?'

'Fine.'

'Fine...'

'Yeah, what else is new?' Greg openly mocked their answer. The toaster spit its contents up and Sherlock took them out while John refilled it, in the same coordinated gestures as always. Greg swallowed a fit of laughter at it.

'The novelty is in a suspect, Greg. We finally have one', John told him.

'About damned time too', Sherlock added. Greg didn't comment he was starting to curse more freely, John's influence probably.

'Give me everything you've got, Sherlock. I need to catch the man who did this to you guys.'

'So do we.' Sherlock pushed a folder onto the Inspector. John had to remember he had stayed up all night most probably.

'I need a fast shower, especially if we're off to the Yard now', John realized all of a sudden.

Greg saw him trail off, mindlessly, frowning at the mismatched coloured socks. He moved himself better though, and seemed to be gathering his strengths.

'Are we really close to catching this guy at last, Sherlock?' In front of him the detective smiled.

'You better make sure he pays, Greg, or I will.'

Greg Lestrade didn't like that tone of voice he heard, but he could hardly blame Sherlock. He opened the file and went through the papers silently. It detailed who he was, his past experience and ability to plan the thing and pin it on John Watson. There were police reports leaked to the press, witness accounts, the lot. 'What's with the blacked out parts, Sherlock?'

'That? Oh, I don't know, got it like that myself', he lied.

'Where did you get this from? Why would they black this out?'

'Can't recall. Haven't got a clue why.'

'Should I care about this blanks?' Greg was studying Sherlock's detached expression.

'I would prefer if you didn't', was his answer.

'Okay, gotcha', Greg played along, John was just passing by them again with a bundle of clean clothes. 'Five minutes, John?'

'Sure', John agreed, 'I'll be ready. Sherlock, the toasts?' And the toasts popped out. John locked himself in the bathroom.

Sherlock commented, absent-minded, as he tackled the toasts and offered them to Greg as well: 'He could always do that, count the time down to the second. Haven't got a clue how he does it...'

'I suppose this is like the old times for the two of you', Greg remarked.

'Yes, it's always been the same toaster.' Sherlock still seemed to be contemplating how John timed the toasts so perfectly, missing the point.

'You know he's going to go home soon, Sherlock', Greg worried. Sherlock sometimes had the maturity of a small child. He was bound to miss John terribly. But then again he had left London for two years and carried on like he hadn't missed John for a second. Sherlock was a weird man, one who would not answer him right now. Greg looked back at the file on his hands.