Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belong to Sir ACD and in this reincarnation Moffat, Gatiss and the BBC. We own nothing and are only writing this for fun.

AN: Collab between Trulywicked and Acherona. Bit of violence and death in this chapter and we apologize in advance for the angst. Please enjoy this chapter.

Tell Me This Night Is Over.

Chapter Eight.

Molly poked her head into 221c cautiously, knocking lightly then stepping in as she heard Sherlock's familiar rumble from deeper inside. He was sitting on the floor with a laptop and his phone when she located him. "Sherlock?"

He looked up, brow furrowed in thought just clearing, "Ah Molly," he tilted his head a bit, "You've gained a stone."

She had to laugh, just a bit. It was such a Sherlock thing to say. "It's good to see you too. I...er...I brought something I thought you'd like." She came closer and held out a bag to him.

He took it from her, opening it to find a photo album and two DVDs. As soon as he opened the album he understood. On the first page was an MRI image of an eight week fetus, details written beside it such as the date and time.

"The um, the DVDs are just some videos of little moments I was around for, plus Christmas..." she trailed off, chewing on her lip nervously.

He trailed his fingers over the little alien looking thing in the image. Once again struck by how surprisingly good a friend Molly was despite how wrongfooted he could be with her. "Thank you." He looked back up at her, "Really. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I'll just um, go and let you look through that. Uh, bye," she began to flee.

"Molly?"

The confused tone of Sherlock's voice made her freeze and turn back, "Yes?"

"How...how does one go about expressing their feelings in writing?"

She blinked then gave him a gentle smile, "You think about how something feels and then you just write it down. A letter for John?"

"Of sorts." He looked down at his laptop.

"You should start with how you felt the day you knew for certain what you'd have to do. Don't make excuses or try to use big, pretty words. Just...tell him how you felt; what you were thinking, and make sure he knows that you do love him."

He nodded and set the album aside to pour over later, "Have a nice date with DI Dimmock then."

She blinked and laughed again, "Should have figured you'd suss that out. Good luck Sherlock."

oOo

Sally was miserable. She hated the hovel she was holed up in, hated London in winter and she hated John Watson. The man was her only loose end, the thing standing between her and a sunny beach in Brazil. Time was running out though, after Watson had his spawn he would be much more difficult to take down. He was an ex-soldier after all and even Sally knew what a parent would go through to protect their spawn. No, she had to take him out now while he was still swollen with the sick thing Sherlock had put inside him.

She wasn't a sniper; Sally knew she would have to get up close and personal to get to Watson. She had to get inside the Baker Street townhouse and she had to be quick getting in, killing Watson and getting back out again. She looked down at the toys Jim had left her. Sally could block any cameras and bugs for fifteen minutes. That gave her fifteen minutes to get in, dispose of Watson and get out, get away as fast and far as she possibly could.

She had it planned, getting in would be easiest if going through the old lady, the back entrance in the old lady's flat. Making the woman walk her upstairs so she could get in. Of course Sally would have to handle her as well but one more body hardly counted as long as she reached her goal. Oh Jim would have been so proud of her.

Only a few days left of this hellhole, then she'd be partying it up and rolling in money.

oOo

Sherlock had been watching his blog for John for a few days, hardly sleeping or looking away except when the nurse Sarah had managed to convince to come teach him the mechanics of baby care was here. He gave his utmost attention to those lessons especially after looking through all that Molly had brought him of the development of his son, his and John's. He'd written out his thoughts and feelings as Molly had suggested for that first post but the following ones were random, depending on what crossed his mind at the time. Whether it had been missing John or how angry he'd been knowing he couldn't come back and see him until the snipers were gone and he'd ensured no more would follow. He wrote a post whenever the urge struck, and considering how easily he got bored it struck quite a bit. But so far no comments from John and no 'hits' on the posts themselves.

It was maddening. He set the laptop aside and got up, intending to pace a bit, when he heard something, an odd scratch and thump. He didn't take time to process, instead he was out of the basement flat and rushing upstairs with the next breath, the gun Mycroft had arranged for him in hand.

Sally had gotten in pretty easily. The back door hadn't even been locked. She smirked to herself; it looked as if this would be easier than she feared.

The old lady had been watching telly, almost too easy to sneak up on her and put the knife to her neck. Now she was hurdling the woman toward the steps leading upstairs, she had just pressed the knife tighter against the old lady's skin when the door to the basement flat slammed open. The flat that was supposed to be empty. The man emerging was even more unexpected and Sally actually stumbled, managing to prick the older woman's skin with the knife.

"You? You're bloody well dead and gone."

"Once more you fail to observe the obvious Sally. Clearly I am not, though I suppose I owe you a measure of thanks. I'd not have been able to return as soon as I have if you'd not killed Moran." He clamped a lid on his fury at seeing the blood Donovan had drawn from Mrs. Hudson. "However you are trespassing so I'd rather you leave." He tapped on his phone, appearing agitated when in fact he was sending Mycroft an emergency summons.

"You're like the devil, you just won't stay down." Sally hissed her heart racing as she pulled the old lady more firmly in front of her, like a shield. "Actually though, this might be better. You get to watch as I cut the mini freak out of your dog. You get to watch them die before I'll finally have the pleasure to kill you myself."

Sherlock forced his anger into a small dark corner of his being; he couldn't afford to lose his control no matter how furious the threat made him. "Really? And how do you plan to get around the very real guard dog that I can guarantee you have, even now, alerted John to the fact that there is a problem? You'll have your brain splattered over the carpet before you have time to realize your miscalculation. You cannot turn your back on me yet if you go up the stairs backwards you'll be attacked from behind by a thirty four kilogram Labrador with very sharp teeth."

"Please, I've been watching this house for a long time; don't you think I didn't take the mutt into consideration? It seems you've lost your touch Freak. The mutt's not even in the house, Dr. Sawyer is out with it for one of their daily walks, each of them about forty minutes long. Watson is up there all on his own, no backup, no time to get that pesky gun out. Watch me go get him; I'm sick of being your audience, now you can be mine." She started to drag Mrs. Hudson with her, walking backwards up the stairs slowly.

The old woman shot her hands out, gripping the banister, and dug her heels in below a step, doing her absolute best to keep the horrible woman from getting any further up the stairs. She was old enough to have come to peace with the inevitability of dying one day and she was not about to let this awful creature harm John or the baby.

Sherlock brought his gun up, holding it steady, "No matter how you position yourself behind Mrs. Hudson there will always be a vital part of your anatomy exposed for me to shoot. I will not allow you to get further up those stairs no matter the cost. You will not touch my John or my son." He kept his words measured and cold and made certain that Sally Donovan could see his intent. If he missed by some odd happenstance and struck Mrs. Hudson accidentally he would grieve and admittedly struggle with guilt but he could live with that. He could not, however, live with losing John or their son.

Sally felt the first slivers of panic slither beneath her skin and her grip on the knife tightened, piercing the skin of her hostage again. She had come too far to simply roll over and give up now. She had brought Sherlock Holmes practically to his knees once before and there had to be a way to do it again. Sally was just about to push the Hudson woman down the steps, into Sherlock and make a dash for the upstairs when the distinct sound of a gun safety being removed sounded behind her.

"I'm pregnant, not deaf. Now let Mrs. Hudson go because I will shoot you in the head without a second thought." John was leaning against the wall of the steps, the hand holding the gun as steady as a rock. He knew he shouldn't be up and walking but how could he not be when he heard what was going on? He had to do something.

Sherlock tightened his grip on his own gun, his heart crawling up to his throat at the sight of John there, stomach round and prominent with their child. Dozens of scenarios where this could go completely, horribly bad went through his mind. "And drop the knife at your feet. Any other action and John and I will drop you quite effectively."

Oh God she hated these two men, hated them so very much. No matter how much she had asked and prodded, Jim had never really given her a reason why he let Watson live that night at the pool. Sherlock she could understand in some way, he and Jim had been dancing but why leave the dog alive? That was just asking for trouble. Now she had two guns trained on her and no way out. Sally didn't like the feeling of being trapped; she didn't like it at all. Well if she was going to die she would do it with flair. Following through with the desperate plan she'd come up with she pushed the Hudson woman into Sherlock and turned to lunge at Watson with the knife, trying to get it into that swollen, disgusting stomach.

John didn't even blink as he pulled the trigger, the body of Sally Donovan, falling on the steps with a dull thud.

Sherlock had caught Mrs. Hudson but as soon as he had he'd given a murmured apology and put her to the side to leap up the stairs, over Donovan's body, and he looked John up and down intently, a slightly shaking hand reaching out then stalling in mid-movement, not sure if John would welcome a touch from him. Likely not. He let his hand fall back to his side, "No injuries or pain?"

"No, I think I'm good...Might have to return to bed though." John felt the strain on his pelvis and hips just from this short time being upright and walking. Walking the stairs was probably not the best idea either. "Just send Greg or whoever comes to my room and they can take my statement." He met Sherlock's eyes for a second before sliding his away, rubbing his belly with his free hand. "Are you alright Mrs. Hudson? Should I take a look at your neck?"

"No, no I'm fine dear. You should let Sherlock help you back upstairs though." Her eyes shone with worry for John, "Going back up those stairs in your condition-"

"Would be massively stupid." Sarah's voice came from the hallway, a little strained by having to hold Sentinel back from charging up the stairs, probably to bite Sherlock on the arse. "I'll take a look at Mrs. Hudson's neck. Holmes you get John upstairs then get right back down here. Quick and simple." Her tone brooked no argument.

Knowing that both Sarah and Mrs. Hudson were right, he honestly wasn't sure he could make it back to bed on his own anyway; John reached out and placed it on Sherlock's shoulder. Oh God, he could feel Sherlock's skin through the shirt, warm and there and alive, it was something he'd thought he would never feel again and now he had no idea what to do. He had heard Sherlock's words about his John and his baby but he didn't know if he dared to believe them.

Sherlock swallowed around the knot of emotions just that single touch brought to the fore and bent to heft John into his arm. He'd carried John before he'd faked his death, usually when John was injured, but it had been over the shoulder, a 'bridal' carry was a bit different. Far from unmanageable though. John still fit easily in his arms and the new weight was negligible and in all honesty it just felt so good to be able to touch John that he'd have carried him anywhere.

He ascended the stairs with his precious cargo in silence, slipping into 221b and back to their bedroom; he still thought of it as theirs and always would even if he wasn't allowed to sleep here with John anymore. He carefully set John down on the bed, lingering just a shade before he gave him his space. "Do," he cleared his thickened throat, "Is there anything you want before I follow Sarah's orders to return downstairs? Water or tea?"

John's ears were red from having been carried like that, being so close to Sherlock after so long. Oh there were plenty of things he wanted, he wanted so badly he ached but he wasn't sure Sherlock could give him what he wanted, what he needed no matter how much he wished it so. "No...um...I'm good. Thank you." He placed the gun back in the lockbox and then he didn't know what to do with his hands, John settled on burying them underneath the blanket he'd pulled over himself to keep them from reaching out to Sherlock and beg him to stay.

Sherlock nodded, giving John one more sweep of his eyes and opening his mouth as if to say something then changing his mind before he slipped out of the room and went downstairs where a team of Mycroft's Secret Service men were already dealing with the mess that had been Sally Donovan. He went to Mrs. Hudson's kitchen and paused, taking in Mycroft's presence as Sarah finished treating the cut on the landlady's neck.

Mrs. Hudson spotted him first, "Oh Sherlock," and she smiled, holding out a hand for him, "Is John alright?"

He stepped over and took her hand, examining the age spots and thin skin for bruising, "He appears to be but I doubt he would let on in front of me if he wasn't."

Sarah hummed as she tucked the first aid kit away, "That's my cue to bring the beast upstairs then," she snapped her fingers and Sentinel got to his feet from the corner he'd been laying in, pausing by Sherlock to lift his leg in a quick piss before following Sarah out of the room.

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the act but otherwise didn't react.

"Rabies, quite sure the brute's got rabies or several brain tumors." Mycroft was fighting both amusement and horror, he wasn't quite sure what he would have done if the dog had urinated on his trousers but it wouldn't have been pretty. "Must admit that I am rather relieved that there is someone the monster hates more than me."

His men were cleaning up now after having removed Donovan's body. Mycroft had texted Greg with the details of what had gone down because he had learned his lesson about keeping secrets from his lover.

"I hardly think the dog is diseased Mycroft, merely protective and clever." Sherlock squeezed Mrs. Hudson's shoulder in silent apology for turning her to the side and risking the possibility of shooting her before.

She merely tutted, pat his hand and bustled down the hall to get him a towel.

Sherlock leaned against the counter near the sink, closing his eyes and knowing he'd never be able to delete the image of John standing there with a murderous Sally Donovan lunging for him. Just as he'd never been able to delete the image of John standing in front of his gravestone crying or the way he'd collapsed after his jump. They were the images that had haunted him through his time away and tested his resolve to remain hidden nightly.

"That would be the last one of Moriarty's spiders." Mycroft stroked a hand over his silk tie, smiling a small, private smile as he felt the tie pin Greg had given him. "Your precious ones should be as safe as they can be, at least from Moriarty's lingering shadow." He looked at his brother. "I believe it is safest if we allow Sally Donovan to stay missing, despite it being fully justified, John's actions would still be questioned. His condition known to more people and I don't think he need the added stress of that right now."

"Agreed, however you or Lestrade will need to tell him that to prevent him from worrying about the consequences or possibility of a court case." He opened his eyes and murmured a thank you to Mrs. Hudson on her return with the towel before he used it to pat his leg and foot dry.

"Still no reply on the blog then?" Mycroft fought to keep his usual bland tone of voice; any concern would be taken as pity and not appreciated. "I think I'll let Greg pass on the news, John is not entirely happy with me either."

"Mmm," Sherlock gave his brother a look, "Lestrade is good for you obviously. You've lost that unsightly paunch." And that was as close as Sherlock would ever get to an actual expression of gratitude for everything his brother had done for him.

Mycroft's eyes softened before he smirked at his brother. "Yes well, he does see to it that I am exercised rather vigorously. You on the other hand need to put on some weight; you're all skin and bones. You'll give John bruises just from hugging you with all those angles."

"John rather liked my angles, as you put it, before this debacle so if he deigns to give me another chance I sincerely doubt that will change."

"I don't think I want to know," Greg came striding in and moved to stand beside Mycroft. "So I'll just ask what the plan is about the corpse being dissolved in the hallway is, beyond the dissolving that is." He'd give this to his lover's people; they knew how to dispose of a body.

"We thought we'd let Sally Donovan stay in the wind, let just enough of her being a dirty cop leak out as to her disappearance won't be questioned too thoroughly. Even in self defense and protection of his loved ones, John would have to go in for questioning otherwise, something very not good for him right now." Mycroft moved minutely closer until their shoulders brushed together gently.

Greg shifted so that Mycroft's taller body almost looked sheltered by his and nodded, "I'm the one who's been volunteered to tell John then I take it."

"Of course. Mycroft is terrified of the dog and I'd be more of a stressor for John at the moment."

"No making fun of Mycroft for being nervous about Sentinel."

Sherlock's lips curved, "So that is what 'Sen' is short for. Appropriate."

Lestrade eyed Sherlock, "You nearly got eaten by that dog and you like him."

"It's a clever, well trained, service dog that protects John, why would I not?" Sherlock look honestly baffled by Greg's incredulity.

"The dog urinated on Sherlock; I don't know which of them is more damaged to be honest." Mycroft's slight smirk was back in place. "And yes, we would very much appreciate it if you were the one to tell John. As striking as Sherlock looks in his white plaster beak, I am not sure it would be the right look for me."

Sherlock huffed and swirled about to return to 221C. He was going to begin an experiment on the effect of diaper cream when combined with various different liquids.

Greg chuckled and kissed Mycroft's jaw, "I'll just go on up then and let John know. Are you free tonight?"

"Barred anything unexpected happening I should be free yes." Aware that they were still occupying Martha's kitchen, Mycroft kept his answering kiss, light and proper before he leaned his forehead against Greg's. "Donovan had something that turned off the cameras in the neighborhood, I was so afraid to come here and face another outcome."

He lifted his hand to the back of Mycroft's neck, careful not to muss his hair, and traced the skin gently, soothingly. "Knowing Sherlock and John it was probably a near thing but there wasn't another outcome, thank God. It's okay now, or it will be as time goes on. The Moriarty chapter is closed firm shut, time to turn the page." his other hand rested at Mycroft's waist, a warm, secure presence. "And silver lining, your sneaky boys will have a new toy to pick apart won't they?"

"Ah yes, there is that. They do love to play with their toys, improve them and claim them as their own." Mycroft smiled, one hand squeezing Greg's shoulder. "I am very pleased that all the threats Moriarty left behind are gone now. Sherlock can finally formally return to the living, expect headlines in the newspapers as soon as John has gone through his C-section safely. Proof of Sherlock not being a fake lies ready to be leaked. I just want to make sure John, Sherlock and Benjamin are well and safe before I leak it."

"Good man," he bumped Mycroft's nose with his, smiling, "Go run the world, I'll head up to ease John's worries and then tonight I am going to spoil you rotten."

"Mmm, that sounds like an evening in my tastes." Mycroft leaned in for a quick kiss. "I'll be off then, be safe until tonight and give John my regards, I doubt he wants them but he has them all the same." Mycroft brushed his palm over his suit and once he left Mrs. Hudson's flat and walked past his men he was the Government right down to the soles of his hand sewn leather shoes.

Greg rolled his shoulders and sighed before heading up the stairs. Now that the Donovan issue was taken care of he'd finally be able to give Mycroft the Christmas present that was interrupted. With luck it would go well and then only Sherlock and John would remain to be sorted to make all right with the world. He hoped John would read that damned blog soon because if not the kid would be teething before his parents made any headway.

oOo

I'm not certain how to do this. Feelings as you know are not something I am particularly good at expressing. I've asked advice on how to write about them and been told to write my thoughts and what I felt without words you'd need to consult a dictionary to understand. I will not explain all the events, neither of us need to be reminded of what happened as it is truly impossible to delete.

Certainty of what I'd need to do came upon me after the arrest, when we were running from the Yard. It had been tickling in the back of my mind since Moriarty was acquitted but it had been low probability, at least I had hoped it would be low probability. I didn't want to leave you John. I didn't want any of what happened. I wanted to find that one clue, make the deduction that would stop it and I wanted to find it so desperately that my heart would race unaccountably fast when I thought I wouldn't manage it.

I fought, to find that clue, to make that deduction, to find any other way I swear that to you. I did fight even as I forced myself to prepare in case I didn't find that clue and I tried to leave you clues as well to the truth of the matter. The rubber ball to start with, I played with it in front of you, hoping you would remember once the worst of the grief faded and make the connection.

When you left to see to Mrs. Hudson and I climbed up to the roof, it hurt. It hurt knowing that I would be leaving you alone, a sharp pain starting in my chest and spreading through my stomach. Of course at that time I still had a slight thought that perhaps you were the only one in danger and I could reveal myself to you in the morgue, let you hit me, and then we could go off and bring an end to Moriarty's network together. Still it hurt to think of letting you believe even for a moment I'd killed myself.

Then he came and revealed that there were others with a sniper's rifle pointed at them and I knew there wasn't any choice. I couldn't have you with me, no matter how badly I wanted you there, how badly I needed you with me, because it would have given it all away. The snipers would realize the truth and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be killed.

I have been knifed before, I remember the sharp pain of it, and that was how it felt having to make that phone call to you. And you, God even after everything, I was standing up there telling you lies about how I'd been a fraud and you were refusing to believe it and the knife twisted. I left another clue there, in the conversation. I told you 'It's a trick.' another thing I felt you would pick up on after the grief faded.

That goodbye remains the second hardest thing I have ever done and certainly the hardest thing I've ever had to say. The hardest thing I've ever done however, you'll be even angrier at me for and all I can say is, even beyond my painful regret over making you watch me jump and believe I was dead, that I am so very, very, immeasurably sorry John.

I am not given to poetic turns of phrase but the only thing I can think of to describe the feeling of watching you at my grave is having my heart ripped out of me. I went there and watched because I needed one last sight of you, a reminder of the most important person, the most important thing in my life and nothing I have ever done, nothing I've ever been through, not being shot, stabbed, strangled or the withdrawal from the cocaine, none of it had ever hurt as much as standing there as you asked me for a miracle and being unable to step out and give it to you right then.

I wanted to. I wanted to so badly John that I ached with it. I had to clench my entire body to keep from walking out and giving you what you asked for and it ached and hurt and I have never hated myself more.

I can give reasons and excuses and none of them are enough, they are all not good. All I can do is explain and then let you know that I am sorry. I am truly sorry. I am sorry I put you through my death. I am sorry I made you grieve. I am sorry I did not give you your miracle when you asked for it that day. I am sorry for everything you have been through alone over these last thirty seven weeks. I am sorry I wasn't there when you found out about your condition and the baby. I am sorry that you have been to every doctor's appointment alone. And I am sorry for the stress I put you through on my return.

I cannot ask for your forgiveness as I do not deserve it. I hope for it, selfish bastard that I am, but I cannot ask for something so precious when I do not deserve it.

I only have ineffectual words to give you but there are six that are absolute truth.

I am sorry.

And

I love you.

I do love you John, as bad as I am at showing it appropriately. I love you with all that I am and I will always love you no matter what. Even if you hate me, loathe my very existence, I love you.

Forever yours
Sherlock.

John read through the blog post before slamming the lid down on his laptop and shoving it aside. It only took a few minutes before he reached for it again and reread the post again and again. Jesus Fucking Christ, he wiped at his eyes, the hot, angry tears stinging at them. What was he supposed to do with this? What was he supposed to say and do?

He understood Sherlock's motivations, he really did get it but the knowledge that Sherlock had been at the cemetery and listened to him bare his soul, listen to him lay his bleeding and broken heart at that cold slab of marble...It hurt so much more than being shot ever had.

John spent hours reading through every post on Sherlock's blog, smiling at some of the experiments and small thoughts Sherlock wrote out, crying at others. It was nearing three am when he finally put his fingers to the keys of his laptop. He hadn't a clue what to write, what he wanted to say but he had to say something.

Sherlock, we can't all be genius, brilliant and amazing men, you left clues yes but I am just a man, a very ordinary man who watched the love of his life die.

I understand why you did what you did, part of me is even proud of you. Stepping up to protect the people you care for. It's the sign of a very good man but know this. You killed me when you 'died'. You killed me Sherlock, my heart still beat, air filled my lungs but I was dead. Every inch of color in the world was lost with you.

You left me alone, you promised not to but you did. I trusted you with my heart and you broke it.

You could have told me Sherlock...I would even have suffered staying behind as long as you'd told me.

I love you, I love you and I always will but how can I trust you?

What if another madman comes along? Will you 'die' again? What if someone targeted our child? Would you arrange for our son to disappear? Would you let me grieve by his headstone as well?

How can I trust you?
John.

Downstairs Sherlock read that question and didn't have an answer. Even if he had he'd never have managed to type it because he couldn't see the screen through his own tears.

To be continued…