Thank you again for your reviews and for reading!

To Howlynn: Your comment made me smile because I was puzzling over the same thing when writing the scene, but then decided that John was so angry that he lost his temper and had to leave, otherwise he would have punched Sherlock. I guess John relies on Mycroft to have an eye on his little brother, which he does as we'll see later ... constructive criticism is always welcome, so thank you!

Plotting

Mary sat and listened to John's rant, sometimes interrupting with quietly asked questions in a hoarse voice, although she was supposed to speak as little as possible. Having left the hospital at her own risk, she was now reclining on the cream-coloured sofa in their Kensington home, basking in the morning light, a steaming cup of tea next to her. Her shoulders were swathed in a pale blue cashmere blanket, and she obligingly lifted her legs for him to sit down, now that he had finished pacing the room in fury, finally running out of words.

John placed her wriggling feet in his lap and tickled her absentmindedly. Exhausted and disappointed, he was glad to feel the warm weight of a sensible person close to him. He let out a deep breath, rubbing his eyes. "Track marks, Mary. It's horrible to see on anyone, but on him …"

She tilted her head to the side. "Makes him vulnerable, hm?"

John looked at her, frowning. "Yeah. And stupid. God, the risks! Infection, overdose, addiction – I don't even want to think about him out there, prowling the streets and doing God knows what to feed this need! Unclean needles, impurities in the drugs, abuse – Jesus! Do you know how many people get robbed, beaten and raped because they are high and helpless? How could he! Just how–"

"John." She gave him a stern look.

"What?" He frowned at her in concern.

"Are you sure about this?"

"There's no mistaking track marks."

"I know." She moved closer and smoothed away the frown on his forehead with one finger. "I mean long term abuse. He didn't look like an addict to me."

He could see how she struggled not to give in to the impuls to clear her throat. "Well, addiction would sure as hell explain his erratic behaviour! Anyway, how do you know he didn't look like an addict?" he frowned. "I mean, it was dark and he attacked you, don't tell me you had time and leisure to study his physique!"

Mary snorted. "Being strangled involves close physical contact." She obviously wanted to say more, but gave up, her throat probably hurting as if she had swallowed rusty nails. John sighed and grasped her hand, overwhelmed by the need to be comforted.

Mary gently squeezed his thumb. "Just think about it." She took her cup of tea and drank carefully, flinching in pain.

John watched her, pondering what she had said. "It's true," he slowly said. "I think the marks were all fairly new. But I didn't get the chance to look at him properly; and that's just what Sherlock would do, you know, taking drugs to keep functioning when he can't go on anymore." He shook his head in desperation. "I don't know, Mary! I can't say whether there were old track marks as well, he wouldn't let me touch him! What if Mycroft's got it wrong for once and Sherlock's don't-touch-me thing is just a way of hiding his drug abuse? Or a sign of drug related paranoia? You know, addicts often believe they have bugs crawling under their skin."

Mary gave him a withering look.

"Okay," John sighed. "No, you're right. On second thoughts, his captors probably knew about his former addiction and used it against him. It's also an easy way to get rid of a corpse – make it look like Sherlock slipped back into old habits and overdosed." He groaned. "Oh God! I got it wrong." Pouting, he declared, "I'm not going to apologize to the git. He could have told me!"

Mary sniggered. "You see, but don't observe?"

"Right. Yeah, that's what he would say. Damnit, even with this he managed to manipulate me. Only he can to do that, the bloody annoying complete idiot … " he trailed off into a string of abuse that sounded more like terms of endearment.

Mary dug her toes into his groin, wriggling them just enough to tease.

"What are you doing?" John gasped.

"Manipulating you," she whispered, smiling cheekily.

"With your feet?"

"Want my hands?" she countered straight faced.

John swallowed, visibly blushing. "Any time."

"I wouldn't mind a comfort cuddle later," Mary smiled, "but right now we need to sort this out. You said Sherlock never liked contact with people. You told me when you met him for the first time you thought he might have some form of autism, though high-functioning."

John hummed in agreement. "Yeah, but with Sherlock you never know – and he changed. When we lived together, it was like he was becoming more accessible … at least with me. He let me in, Mary, he was impatient and unsympathetic with everyone else, but with me he took the time to explain what was going on in his mind; he seemed to rely on me to mediate between him and the rest of the world, and he didn't mind me invading his personal space. He once came into the flat with a knife wound, bleeding all over the carpet, and he had passed at least one hospital on his way home! He didn't want strangers to touch him but was fine with me doing it. He's not the hugging type, but when it was necessary, he showed no reluctance and made no fuss, so I stitched him up plenty of times. Now he flinches when I just move into his direction." He threw his hands into the air, then buried his face in them. "I don't know him anymore. I don't know what happened and he won't explain. There's just silence."

Mary thought about it. "John, you're a doctor, you've been to war, you have seen and experienced your fair share of horror. You may not know what happened, but I'm sure you can imagine a range of things that may have caused this. Leave out your own feelings and look at him as a doctor. What would your diagnosis be?"

"I'm not a psychiatrist, Mary."

"Your time in Afghanistan provides you with more experience in the field than a London based shrink treating stressed out city boys."

"True." He closed his eyes and thought for a long time. Finally, he sighed. "Traumatized. Severely. Depressed, definitely, plus drug withdrawal, and possibly psychosis."

Mary sat up and took hold of his hands. "You say he wasn't an extrovert in the first place. Now add a streak of autism and three years of solitude."

"Oh God," John muttered, closing his eyes.

"You know what loneliness did to you, John. Imagine him, on his own. The silence doesn't seem so strange then, does it?" she asked quietly.

John just groaned, then hugged her and buried his face in her shoulder. "You're right."

She rubbed his back thoughtfully. "John, whatever your own feelings are and no matter how legitimate they are, if you want Sherlock back, then holding a grudge is not helpful. You can save that for later."

"You mean save the punching and do the talking," he muttered into her shoulder.

"Exactly."

Squeezing her tighter, he moaned, "I wish I could just burn that bloody silence away."

"You can't burn silence," Mary replied calmly. "Only break it."

John snorted. "I have a feeling we're both going to break before the silence does."

"Then you'll both need mending." Mary kissed him gently behind the ear and he kissed her back, careful not to hurt her bruised neck. He pulled back, looking at her with admiration, and then they stopped talking and proved to each other that touching and being touched was a fundamental human need.

John was ushered into a meeting room full of intelligence experts and members of a task force to hear the details of the plan to catch Moran.

Sherlock was there, too, sitting opposite him, not even acknowledging his presence when he entered. He looked exetremely pale in the cold neon light; to his surprise, John noticed a bruise under his left eye – the fading colour indicated that it had to be a few days old, and there was no swelling whatsoever. How had he missed this during their first encounter? Sherlock had kept his head turned away, he suddenly realised, and then he had been so distracted by the track marks on his arms that he had never noticed the bruised eye. Strange, it was clearly a haemorrhage, but not from a punch to the face.

Puzzled, John sat down. Soon, his thoughts returned to more urgent matters, but he vowed to catch Sherlock after the briefing and get a few answer out of him, and this time he would maintain control. Hopefully. For now, he forced himself to focus on the task at hand: catching Moran.

It turned out Sebastian Moran was an internationally wanted killer: a lot of people in a lot of countries were desperate to get their hands on him, mostly because he had been Moriarty's right-hand man, which meant he was privy to very sensitive information. The killing bit was certainly too mundane to get the CIA and the Russians interested, John mused wrily. Sitting in a chair facing a room full of people in unobtrusive suits, John scrutinized the unremarkable faces around him and hoped that none of the CIA guys had anything to do with Sherlock's abduction.

The man in question gave no indication of it: Sherlock sat with his legs crossed, looking decidedly bored. Wrapped in his coat and scarf, he stood out in every possible way; despite having been the one to track down Moran, he did not belong to the world of secret service and espionage. Mycroft, however, did, but even he looked much more the diplomat than the spy master – which was probably the best possible cover.

Mycroft was now explaining the situation to him as much as to various members of foreign secret service agencies or whatever they were. He turned to John, his blue eyes fixed on him, and John could not help but remember that Moriarty had nicknamed him the Ice Man. How apt.

"Moran wants revenge for having been fooled," Mycroft explained calmly, "and he wants to finish the job, but above all he wants to prove to the world that he is as capable as Moriarty – only then can he take over his position. Therefore, he intends to kill you, John, in front of everyone's eyes, preferably with Sherlock standing right next to you, proving he outsmarted the detective – a prince worth his dead king's crown. In short: he needs to show off."

John raised his brows, thinking of Moriarty wearing the Crown Jewels, styling himself King of Crime. Admittedly, he had looked the part.

"Your appearance in court to be a witness at the hearing on the accusations against Sherlock presents the perfect opportunity, John: the hearing at the Old Bailey will receive a lot of attention, containing the ultimate surprise with Sherlock coming back from the dead. This is the one moment when it will be difficult to protect you. After carefully gathering intelligence, we have been able to establish what Moran plans to do."

"Shoot me in front of the Old Bailey?" John quipped.

They all looked at him in surprise.

"Indeed," Mycroft drawled, a strange look on his face. He noticed that Sherlock's expression did not change, but his eyes were suddenly fixed on John.

"Well, hardly a difficult guess," John shrugged. "It's the place of Moriarty's trial, plenty of press will be there, the entrance is like a theatre stage – the perfect place, really."

Mycroft's mouth curled into a fine smile. "You are quite right, this is indeed what he plans. Only, there's a twist to it." Mycroft paused for a moment, then continued, "Moran may not be as brilliant as Moriarty, but he is no fool either. He has sat up a trap for us: a sniper – mind you, not Moran – will attempt to kill you after the hearing on your way out of the court."

"What makes you sure it's after the hearing?" John immediately interrupted. "Why not before?"

"Because during the hearing, Sherlock will make his appearance, revealing himself to the world and proving his innocence. Imagine how the press will react – when the hearing is over, they will be all over the place."

"Moran knows that?"

"Yes."

"Okay, that's the kind of attention he's looking for," John agreed.

Mycroft continued. "The sniper Moran set up resembles him physically, and the man believes he is hired to shoot you, but he has no idea that he is just a red herring. We know where he will hide, and we will neutralize him shortly before you leave the building, thus capturing the wrong man, supposedly believing it is Moran."

"How do you know all this?" John asked suspiciously.

"We know this, because Moran wants us to know it," Mycroft answered. "He has fed us this information very carefully and in a surprisingly subtle way – just not too subtle to be found out. I must say, I was impressed by his cunning."

"How can he feed you information?" John demanded sharply.

"I regret to say there is a mole in my team," Mycroft responded. "We discovered this a while ago and deemed it important to keep up the pretense. It proves useful now."

"How can you be sure it's not just another ruse?" John shot back.

Mycroft blinked and failed to answer for a moment – Sherlock, John noted, broke into the tiniest of smiles – was there pride in it? His heart suddenly beat a little quicker.

"As I said, Moran is not Moriarty, and we have been very thorough," Mycroft assured him.

John frowned. "Okay," he said slowly, "so you know there's a sniper and Moran wants you to know. Did I get this right: Moran's plan is that you catch the wrong sniper, thinking it's him, and while we let down our guard and everyone celebrates, Moran shoots me anyway?"

"Exactly." Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Imagine the scene, John: you standing in front of the Old Baily, next to you Sherlock, just reappeared and magically alive, reporters tripping over themselves to get the best picture, and then you are shot right in front of them."

"Thanks for the vivid description." John smiled sweetly at Mycroft. "So, how do you make sure Moran doesn't get what he wants?"

"We'll find him in the meantime, of course." Mycroft smiled back just as sweetly. "We take down the wrong shooter and identify Moran's hiding place at the same time. There are only so many places from where you can shoot."

"Okay, and if you don't find him in time?"

"We won't let you out of the building unless we do. But of course you will be wearing a bulletproof vest, just in case."

John scoffed. "And much good that will do me. Moran's trademark is to shoot the victim in the head." All eyes turned to him and Mycroft straightened his back imperceptibly. John raised his brows in answer. "I've made my own enquiries, Mycroft. Moran served in Afghanistan – he has a reputation among army guys."

He caught the tiniest bit of movement from Sherlock – for the fraction of a second, his eyes sparkled, and he gazed at him with unsettling intensity, as if willing to communicate something – but then the moment was gone.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "You are quite right. As explained, we will take down Moran before you leave the building, but I admit there is always room for error – it is still dangerous."

"Well, that has never deterred me." John shrugged.

"We could use a body double-"

"No." John shook his head emphatically. "He's a sniper, remember? Bound to have a good peek at me through the scope." He smirked. "Anyway, why should some other bloke risk his life?"

Sherlock definitely smiled now, he noticed, and his heart leapt despite all the anger buried there.

Mycroft smirked, too. "We assumed you would argue that."

"You assumed right."

"Your wife won't be pleased," Mycroft added softly.

"… and very disappointed in me if I let somebody else take the risk. No, she knows me better than that."

Sherlock looked down at either his hands or his phone or whatever he was hiding under the table at the mentioning of Mary, he noticed, but again, the corner of his mouth twitched. Appreciation or mockery? John stared at him intently, but Sherlock's face was impassive again.

"I have one last question before I agree to this." John looked directly at Mycroft. "Who devised this plan?"

Mycroft's mouth twitched slightly and his eyes slid to his brother. "Sherlock did."

John stared challengingly at Sherlock, willing him to meet his gaze, but the younger Holmes did not look up. "So, Sherlock is the one who gathered the information and worked out this plan?"

"Yes, and it took quite some effort," Mycroft answered carefully.

"Well," John took a deep breath, "it certainly won't be boring." He looked around in fake enthusiasm. "Let's do it."

"Very well," Mycroft handed him a folder. "Here's all the information you need, John," he promised, giving him a tight-lipped smile.

"Right, I better read it then," John muttered, peeking inside and snapping the folder shut again. Looking around, he searched the room for Sherlock. He was determined to catch him – he knew he couldn't get Sherlock to talk, but he wanted to tell him that this was OK with him and that they would sort it out later … and yes, he wanted to apologize for his outburst about the track marks, although he had said he wouldn't.

Most people had risen and were talking agitatedly now, going over details and fishing for flaws, but Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Apparently, he had used the brief moment of John being distracted to escape.

Upset, John looked at Mycroft, but he just shook his head imperceptibly.

His mouth suddenly tasted bitter with disappointment.