Author's Note: Chapter Warning: Very brief Abominable Bride reference

Hello, everyone! *Four things:

1. The above warning: As you know, this story deals quite heavily with BBC canon and in the wake of a new episode it seems I was unable to resist weaving it in already. (I meant to give it at least another update, but it just dropped in so nicely!) The reference is only a few lines of dialogue from the episode pulled out of context. I wouldn't call it a spoiler, but feel free lob pitchforks if you read and disagree. There will be continued AB references in the following chapters, so if you haven't seen it I hope you'll be able to watch it soon and continue on here with me!

2. Schedule change: Next chapter on Thursday. Going back to posting new chapters on Mondays and Thursdays. Sorry for the change, but I hope this will be the last one. My schedule is weird at the best of times, but I'm optimistic about Mondays and Thursdays this time.

3. Reviews: They seem to be broken! I'm still getting them in my email, but I can't access them on the site, and therefore can't reply. :( I sent a message to support, so I hope the problem will be fixed soon, but in the meantime I would like to issue a blanket THANK YOU to everyone who reviewed from December 30th on. I have read and cherished every one of your comments. Please do keep reviewing (they're still showing up in my email and they're still making me smile). I hope they'll appear on the site again soon, and I'll reply asap!

4. Apologies for an obnoxiously long author's note and THANK YOU ALL for your support in follows and favorites or just for reading this far!

Someone who was not John was in their flat. The door—left slightly ajar—said as much, and one whiff of Claire-de-la-lune on the stairs was enough to solve the mystery.

"Mary Morstan," Sherlock said, emphasising her last name.

She was sitting in John's chair. Mrs. Hudson had let her in. He would have to have a word with Mrs. Hudson.

"Sherlock." She stood up to face him.

"John's playing rugby; he should be home shortly." He stepped around her, dropping into his chair and pulling his laptop onto his knees.

"I know. I came here early to talk to you."

Sherlock glanced up at her before looking back at his screen. "Really."

"You know he was better off with me."

"Do I?"

"It's going to kill him, living here. You're going to kill him."

"Going just by body count, of the two of us I'd say you were the more likely to kill someone."

"I'm retired. You are still dragging him into gunfights."

Sherlock did a swift analysis of her face to determine whether she knew about the incident with Carl Reeves. He concluded that she didn't, that she was talking generally.

"You're going to get him killed and you know it. If you really cared about him you wouldn't allow him to stay with you."

Sherlock swung the laptop shut and stood up, using his height to his advantage.

"Or," he said, voice low, warning, "I wouldn't treat him like a child. We don't allow John to do things, Mary. He makes his own choices." Sherlock had learned this in Ireland, and he'd had the bruises to prove it.

"And that's just fine for you then, if he chooses death?" There was audible strain in her voice. "You won't cry at his funeral because it was his choice?"

"John's addiction to a lifestyle which involves a certain level of danger began long before he met me," Sherlock responded acerbically. "England has a pressing need for surgeons. They're reputable, high-paid positions. John chose the army instead. What does that tell you?"

"That doesn't mean you have to encourage—"

"If he wasn't with me now he'd be finding some other way to get shot at," Sherlock snapped. "At least when he's with me I know I can die doing my best to protect him."

"I'll hold you to that, Sherlock," she said, severe eyes unblinking. "Because if he gets hurt, and you're not dead first, know that I'll kill you fast after."

"Oh, I believe you, Mary," Sherlock sneered. "I know for a fact you wouldn't hesitate to kill me without any provocation at all."

They were doing their best to eviscerate each other with their eyes when John walked in. He cleared his throat. He was wearing jogging bottoms over his rugby shorts and a hoodie under his coat, gym bag slung over his shoulder.

Sherlock abruptly turned from Mary and dropped down into his chair. Mary took a deep breath and looked toward John.

"Hi," she said uncertainly.

"Hi." John's eyes slid from her face, communicating his discomfort. "What are you, erm—why are you…"

Mary straightened her posture. "I have the papers. They sent them to the house." She drew an envelope out of her purse.

Ah, the divorce papers. Interesting.

John flexed his hands, walking over and dropping his gym bag on the floor.

"You just—you just need to sign them." She pulled the packet out from the envelope and offered it to him. He took it, walking to the table and lifting the pen Sherlock had been using to make notes.

Mary watched motionlessly as John glanced through the documents. He scratched his signature at the bottom of various pages. He walked back to her, holding out the packet.

She took it, blinking back tears. "I'm so sorry, John."

John drew in a long breath. "Yeah, me too."

"Please take care of yourself. If you ever need anything…"

John nodded. "Take care, Mary."

Her breath shuddered as she tucked the envelope back into her purse. She turned, rubbing the tears out from under her eyes as she walked toward the door.

John watched her until the door clicked shut. He turned on his heel and walked into the bathroom. Sherlock heard the shower run a moment later.

If John had been worried Sherlock might Say Something about the incident that afternoon, he needn't have been. Sherlock had been silent, working on his laptop until the evening and John was grateful for the quiet. He was editing his notes on their current case, wondering how he was going to fictionalise the method Sherlock had used to confirm the way Amy Elliot had received the poison, when Sherlock announced, "We're going to a cemetery tonight."

John looked up. Field work. Perfect. Anything to take his mind off of his newly official divorce.

It was after eleven when they got into the cab.

"It's imperative we aren't seen," Sherlock said. "Moran can't know we have this information, that we're this close on his trail."

"Right. What are we doing?"

"Here." Sherlock handed him a mask. It was a skeleton face with fabric that would cover his whole head. "Put this on."

"Erm…"

"CCTV," was apparently enough of an explanation.

But weren't skeleton masks suspicious and weird and more likely to draw attention—oh, John remembered, tonight is Halloween. He had completely forgotten—and he had the work party tomorrow night. He groaned inwardly. He'd promised Sandra, his colleague at the surgery, that he would go. Time moves differently when you're with Sherlock Holmes. It was easy to forget which month it was, let alone which day.

They secured their masks before exiting the cab.

Sherlock walked briskly and John kept pace. There were a few groups of people out, dressed in costume, laughing and shouting; it was late enough for the partiers to be reasonably drunk. In a block John could see the cemetery. It was lit only by the light of the streetlamps and surrounded by a chain-link fence. After hours. It would certainly be closed. They walked along the fence for another block.

"Few more metres…" Sherlock murmured from behind the mask, "and the camera range ends… here."

Sherlock stopped short and swung himself up onto the fence. He scaled it swiftly, climbed over, and dropped down on the other side. John didn't need to be told to follow. Sherlock pulled a small torch from his pocket and they began to wander among the graves.

"What are we looking for?"

"Karina."

John raised his eyebrows, not that Sherlock could see his expression under the mask.

"My research this morning was productive. Sebastian Moran: ex-military, currently one of London's leading psychologists. He has an expensive practice near Trafalgar Square."

Why is it always the crazy ones who are the psychologists? John wondered.

Their footsteps were muted on the soft, grassy path between the row of graves. The glow of lamplights from the street tinged the dark around them, but John kept his eyes on the brighter cut of light from the torch as it slid across the gravestones, illuminating each in turn.

"In addition to Monroe's, Moran owns several other businesses in London," Sherlock continued. "His name isn't on any of the official documentation but I found repetitions. If you're not interested in running an establishment by the books you need an agreement with your book keepers. The real estate agents and lawyers that can be paid to alter a few names and numbers are valuable assets for the white collar criminal and good tracing makers for me. Moran used the same people to set up several of his businesses, which evidence suggests operate dually as fronts for the more lucrative drug trade."

"What kind of businesses?" John asked, maintaining partial awareness of the names moving past.

"The usual: Restaurants, second-hand shops… Also a flower shop"—John took a beat to appreciate the thought of evil florists—"and a toy shop."

"Sad for the kid who accidentally gets the teddy bear full of crack rather than fluff," John mused.

The skeleton face turned toward him. "These people are professionals, John. By all accounts they've been operating for years undetected. Such an amateur mistake is not likely."

John considered pointing out that he'd been joking, but decided to let it go. The point of a joke is not to have to explain that it's a joke.

"But most importantly," Sherlock was saying, "Moran also owns a funeral home."

Sherlock paused expectantly.

"Ok…" John said.

Sherlock gave up waiting. "And the funeral home owns this cemetery. It's very convenient to own a cemetery when you have a body to get rid of. The best place to hide a tree is in a forest."

John remembered Sherlock had said that once before. They were looking for spray paint among graffiti. It was a long time ago. The Chinese smuggling gang. They had been through hell that night, and so much more since then.

They walked on, statues and monuments looming over the graves of whom John assumed were the wealthier departed. It was a large cemetery, and John was just understanding how long it could take to check each grave when Sherlock stopped short, causing John to walk into his side.

"Here." John followed the beam of the torch. "Karina Dyachenko," he read. "It's new."

Sherlock took out his phone and snapped a picture.

"They used her real name? That's a bit ballsy isn't it?"

"Exactly the amount of arrogant we can expect from someone who never gets caught. It's a common Ukrainian name; why shouldn't he use it? The brilliant part is, if anyone were looking for her they would never think to look in a cemetery. Murderers don't buy plots and bury their victims."

"This one does."

"Well, he's special, isn't he?"

"So this is it then," John said, the amazement in his voice travelling through the mask. "You solved it. With her body here, in a cemetery you can prove Moran has connections to, you have enough evidence for a warrant for his arrest. Once they dig up her body the rest will practically be just paperwork." John blinked in astonishment. "Is this the end of the road?"

"We have our net drawn around him, but it's—" Sherlock stopped. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

Sherlock held up his hand. "Listen."

John heard the rattle of the fence. Laughter.

"Someone's coming." Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him around behind the back of a monument.

They looked around the edges and could see a group of costumed people half walking, half stumbling directly toward them.

Halloween, John thought, perfect night to be working a cemetery.

Sherlock jerked him back and spun him around. He pressed him back up against the stone and yanked his sleeve, pulling him down. John sat on his heels and Sherlock crouched in front of him, bracing himself against the monument on either side of John's shoulders.

"Does it matter if they see us?" John asked, keeping his voice low. He didn't have to whisper. Sherlock was so close, practically on top of him. "They're just a bunch of drunk teenagers, and we have masks."

"We can't take any risks. Not when we're this close to winning. They could be working for Moran."

John wanted to scoff at this, but then again, he supposed if anyone had a right to be paranoid it was Sherlock Holmes. When Sherlock thought there were microphones and cameras in their flat, there usually were.

The detective raised himself up a bit, peered around the edge of the stone, and sank back down.

"They're sitting directly opposite Karina's grave. It can't be a coincidence."

Sitting. Sitting and drinking from the sound of it. They could be here a while, and John was not keen on staring at the weird skeleton skull hovering just inches from his face. He started to pull off his own mask and when Sherlock didn't stop him he assumed it was ok. Then he took hold of the fabric at Sherlock's neck and pulled it up, gently pushing it back off of the detective's face.

Dark eyes regarded him curiously for a moment. Sherlock shifted his weight, leaning into him, and John could feel a brush of his curls against his cheek. Almond. The scent brought him back to the morning and the living room floor.

"It really could be a coincidence though," John said, doing his best to ignore the deluge of sensory memories, warm skin and the soft press of limbs, threatening to derail his focus. He was feeling lightheaded from the crouched position and possibly from inhaling the scent of Sherlock's hair too deeply. God, what was wrong with him? He was stone cold sober this time. No excuses for being weird, Watson.

"Pocket," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"Phone, in my pocket. Jacket not coat."

John pushed aside Sherlock's unbuttoned coat and reached into the inner pocket of his jacket. It never seemed to occur to Sherlock how intimate it was: the way he was always asking John to get things from his pockets.

"I need you to send a text to Lestrade," Sherlock murmured low in his ear.

John shut his eyes. That voice. Unmistakable. Inimitable. The rich baritone as beautiful as every other part of the detective. Deep and smooth; the perfect English accent. The man could narrate bloody nature documentaries if he wanted to. John remembered the terror that had stricken him when he thought he was forgetting the sound of it in the years Sherlock was gone.

He opened his eyes. But Sherlock was here, now, pressed so close to him John could feel his breathing. And this time he wouldn't let him go. Sherlock would always be there to talk to him, tearing the universe apart in deductions with that voice, telling him to send a text to Lestrade in that voice. Because he had to be. He was, by far, the most important thing that had ever destructively crashed into John's life and John was not going to lose him again. He couldn't. If Sherlock dropped dead tomorrow they would have to pry John off of his body because he would never believe it again.

He navigated Sherlock's phone as easily as his own and prepared to type whatever Sherlock would tell him.

When a strategically timed police officer arrived and scattered the midnight cemetery revellers, Sherlock waited a moment until the area was clear. He started to stand but John caught his arm.

"Wait," John murmured.

"What?"

"Don't you want to check the grass for wires? Every gravestone could be a hidden camera."

"Don't be ridiculous, John, it would be impossible to wire the entire cemetery. It would be too obvious. People would—" John was grinning widely and Sherlock stopped. "That was a joke, wasn't it."

"Not one of my best, I'll admit."

"Moran easily could have paid them to sit by a specific grave all night. I'm not paranoid. Paranoid people wear aluminium foil hats, and I have yet to do any such thing."

"I'm waiting on the edge of my seat."

Sherlock couldn't help grinning. "If you'd like to join the wager over at Scotland Yard as to which of us will suffer the first psychotic break, I'm sure Inspector Dimmock will let you in on it."

Sherlock stood and John looked up at him.

"Seriously?"

"I've got you down for March, three years from now." Sherlock smiled in earnest as he held out his hand.

"Well, that's optimistic." He took Sherlock's hand and stumbled forward when he stood up. Sherlock caught him at the upper-arms.

"What do you mean 'optimistic'?" he asked, holding John in place. "Don't accuse me of optimism."

"Sorry, but three years is a bit optimistic. No one could live a month at Baker Street without losing his sheep."

Sherlock's eyebrows shot up. "There! You see? I told you it was a phrase."

John laughed, shaking his head, and when he looked back at Sherlock there was an emotion in his eyes that Sherlock found was immobilising his legs. He was vaguely aware that he hadn't let John go, but suddenly he didn't want to. The paralysis in his legs seemed to be spreading through his upper body as it occurred to him that this is exactly what he had wanted. Ever since he'd jumped off the roof of Barts he'd been waiting for this.

He was back, and now John was back too—with the divorce papers signed he was officially back—and it would be just the two of them again like it had been before he died, before Mary… Just the two of them against the rest of the world. This—this moment—was everything he had thought about: out in London in the night, hot on the trail, new evidence, case nearly solved, John at his side, laughing, god he had missed the way John laughed, no need for John to leave to go 'home' because home was Baker Street, nothing to take John's attention away from The Game, away from him— And he had all of it now, here, tonight; this is what he wanted. So it was with no small amount of horror that Sherlock realised it wasn't enough.

He was stunned by the feeling. He wanted—needed—more. John was looking at him, dark blue eyes beneath blond fringe. He was here, truly present the way he hadn't been when Sherlock was dead and then when he was dividing his time to be with Mary. There was nothing between them now and yet he wasn't close enough.

Sherlock shut his eyes as he felt, within his mind palace, the lock break. The door to the Feelings Closet swung open and a rush of memories flooded through his mind like water.

John sitting next to him in a cab, head turned to look at him, eyes filled with amazement; John giggling, We can't giggle, it's a crime scene; John walking through the flat in t-shirts and pyjama bottoms; John strapped in Semtex; John's jumpers and his smiles; the growly noises John made when he was irritated; John holding his gaze, standing his ground, not backing down when Sherlock pushed him; John pulling rank at Dartmoor; John pulling him roughly up against the bars of a gate, handcuff digging into his wrist; John standing at his grave: Stop it, just stop this; John sitting alone at a table, his first sight of him after two years; getting to John through fire; Course, of course you're my best friend; John, waltzing, hand on his back; John, drunk, hand on his knee: I don't mind; the weight of John's body, pinning him to the ground on the cliffs; John standing in the living room wearing the tuxedo; You're very pretty—

"Sherlock? Are you all right?"

John wearing only his boxers—his toned muscles; kissing John: the taste of whisky, the smell of wool and rain; waking up tangled in John, the heat of his body—

All of these instances had been manageable individually. He had locked each one away in what had been an airtight stronghold, but now… There was a rushing noise in his head; his mind palace was flooding; he couldn't think... John's clear eyes were watching him inquisitively, waiting.

Damn it, Holmes, you are flesh and blood. You have feelings. You must have… impulses. John. An echo in his mind.

The impulse pounded in his chest with the quickening beat of his heart. He stepped forward.

He's right, you know. Voices like memory.

So what if he's right; he's always right; it's boring.

Sandy hair catching glints of faded streetlight. An impulse to move his hand to John's jaw. He strained against it, fingers clenching where they were locked on John's arms. Didn't he want to observe John's reaction if he tipped his head back? Didn't he want to know what kind of noise John might make if he bit his lip? Didn't he want to trigger the same visceral part of John that switched on like a light at the right provocation? The part that would growl low, pushing Sherlock backward, tasting him in flashes of teeth and tongue—

John's eyes were skimming over his face, trying to read him.

Didn't he want—hadn't he always wanted…?

Fuck.

Mobility sprang back into his muscles and Sherlock shoved John backward. He whirled around, taking off across the cemetery, and he didn't look back.

John stumbled, catching his heel on a raised grave marker and falling backward onto the grave.

He leaned up on his elbows and had just enough time to see Sherlock jump down from the fence onto the pavement. He went off down a side street, disappearing around the corner.

Ow, was his first thought. And then, What the buggering hell was that?