Chapter 11: Secrets to be Told

"I'm not staying at Mycroft's."

"Our flat is a crime scene full of heads, Sherlock! We can't stay there."

"I'll sleep on the street."

"No, we're not doing this again. I told you already, it's not proper to be living on the street when your brother has a perfectly fine room at his house waiting for you."

"I don't care."

"Well, I have a baby, Sherlock," John huffed. "I'm not living on the streets. And it'd be rude to take Mycroft's offer without you. He's only inviting me because he wants you to stay."

"He just wants to micromanage me," Sherlock complained, folding his arms across his chest.

"Well, here's a grand notion that might be a little hard for you to wrap your head around, but have you ever considered that he might actually care about you? You are his brother."

"Ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed.

"Dammit, Sherlock, why is it so hard for you to believe there are people who care about you?"

Sherlock didn't say anything. He pursed his lips in a tight line.

"You're reckless, and sporadic, and immature. You turn to drugs instead of turning to your friends. There are people who would never turn their back on you, so don't you dare turn your back on them when they're only doing what they can to look out for you."

Sherlock uncomfortably shifted his gaze away, and John let out a sigh.

"Look, I'm sorry, okay? I know you're going through a hard time right now. I see that. I'm just worried about you Sherlock. And I think maybe it'd be safer if we crashed at your brother's for a bit. I don't want you on the streets and dabbling in drugs again. And... I feel safer with you around. Please. For me."

Sherlock thought back to Irene's words. Who's going to save him from himself if you're gone? "Okay," he said.

John blinked. "Excuse me?"

Sherlock shifted his eyes to look at John again. "I said okay. We'll go to Mycroft's."

"Thank you," John whispered, and hugged Sherlock with the arm that wasn't holding Lucy. The baby smiled up at Sherlock, reaching out for his curly hair with chubby hands. He smiled back at her and kissed her forehead. Mycroft may be his brother, but here was his family. And he'd do nearly anything for them.

"Sorry, John, there's only one guest room," Mycroft said without sympathy. "But there's two beds in there, and I'd really prefer if you two would keep off my couch."

Sherlock glanced at his brother. He knew there was another empty room down the hall, but he didn't say anything. This was Mycroft's way of keeping a watch on him, but he was too exhausted to argue and didn't want to upset John. Besides, they shared a flat together. It couldn't be that big of a deal to share a room together. They did have separate beds.

"Thank you," John told Mycroft as he guided them through the house. Lucy was sleeping in his arms, her face pressed against his jacket. Sherlock looked at her with a pang. The girl he loved more than any other in the world was only a few months old and yet had gone through so much. He could only hope she was too young to remember the hard times now and enjoy the better ones he wanted in her future. Not everyone remembered their very early years like he did, right?

Sherlock noted grimly that Mycroft had purchased a crib to place in the room. While John would appreciate the gift, he knew it was Mycroft's way of saying Sherlock was on lockdown. They'd be there for a while. John carefully placed Lucy into the crib before taking the right bed, sitting on the edge with his hands in his head. Sherlock flopped onto the left mattress.

"So," John said, rubbing his eyes with his palms, "are you going to tell me what happened? Why you were gone?"

Sherlock sighed. "I really don't want to talk about it tonight. Tomorrow?"

John clasped his hands on his knees and turned to look at Sherlock. "All you do is keep secrets, and it's frustrating."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock murmured up at the ceiling.

"But really you're not," John reprimanded. "Why don't you tell me? Do you not trust me?"

Sherlock rolled onto his side to stare at John. "It's not that," he admitted. "I... You're my best friend. And I love Lucy more than anyone else in the world. You two mean everything to me. I don't want anything bad to happen." It came out in a shaky whisper. Sherlock felt strange, recognizing and admitting the side to him he tried to keep hidden, even from himself.

"Well I want to help." John looked back at him, into his blue-gray eyes. "You don't have to protect me. I've been to war. I've been shot. I saw my best friend jump off a building and disappear for two years. I've handled the death of my wife. I've been strapped to bombs and tied to chairs. Maybe... Okay, I haven't handled all of those situations very gracefully, but I get through. I don't want to be protected. I want to get through. I want to know."

Sherlock could tell by the look on John's face that this wasn't a matter of discussion. John was telling him how it would be. Sherlock grinned inwardly, appreciating the moments John took to stand up and lead. It was the soldier coming out in him.

"Alright," Sherlock answered. "But I'm tired. Can we talk about this tomorrow?" He pulled off his coat and rummaged through the bag of clothes he had brought, looking for pajamas. His back was turned to John when he heard a sharp intake of breath.

"Sherlock, where'd you get those scars?" John asked.

"Hmm?" Sherlock replied.

"The scars. All over your back. Like you had deep gashes that healed."

"Well, yeah. I did."

"What?" John exclaimed. "When was this?" Sherlock was nearly always covered. The last time John had seen his bare back, there hadn't been any scars.

"It was awhile ago," Sherlock said, not turning around. "When I was gone, after the whole staged-death thing. I was taking down Moriarty's system in eastern Europe. I was kinda hung by my wrists and whipped at one point." He heard John get up but didn't dare look at him.

Sherlock shuddered slightly when he felt John's fingers tracing the scars on his back. He pursed his lips shut, not daring to speak. He could feel John's breath on his skin when he murmured, "Sherlock."

His back tensed as his hands tightly gripped his pajama shirt. He was fighting the sudden urge to spin around and kiss John, with only the bitter memory of the last time still in his mind halting his desires. He could feel the delicate touch of the doctor's hands examining his body. He wondered if John could hear the fast-paced beating of his heart or how labored his breath had become.

"I... I'm going to change now," Sherlock managed, pulling away regretfully from John's touch. He walked out of the room and headed towards the bathroom, letting out a sigh once he locked the door behind him.

When he walked out of the bathroom, Mycroft was waiting for him. "Like your accommodations?" Mycroft asked with a smirk.

"What is it now," Sherlock complained. "I'm tired."

"Well you did have me track John, to keep him safe, so I know what happened. Even if you didn't want to tell me."

Sherlock felt his nerves go cold. "What are you talking about?"

Mycroft leaned in to whisper in his brother's ear. "The kiss, Sherlock. What were you thinking?"

Sherlock shoved Mycroft away. "We're not discussing this." He started storming off to the bedroom.

"You're getting reckless, Sherlock," Mycroft called to him.

"And you don't know what you're talking about," Sherlock replied, turning down the hall and out of Mycroft's sight.

It took some effort to not slam shut the bedroom door. When he returned, John was curled up under the sheets. Sherlock looked at him sullenly before climbing into his own bed and trying to relax. But being under Mycroft's constant stare was unnerving.

That night, John didn't have the regular nightmares he was expecting. Surprisingly, there were no heads or bombs or any physical danger at all. In fact, the dream had been oddly pleasant. It had begun as innocent, as he traced the scars across Sherlock's back. Raised flesh on pale skin. He was simply curious, learning the dangers Sherlock had faced while away for two years.

Then the dream shifted. The lighting was dark and a telly blared football in the background. He was sitting at a bar, but was facing Sherlock. And then he found his fingers tangled in Sherlock's hair as their tongues entwined. And he was enjoying it. Really enjoying it. A small voice said "it must be the alcohol" but his body disagreed and his heart beat rapidly with excitement. Slowly his hands began to wander across Sherlock's chest, and the curiosity in him thought of going lower. He moved a hand to Sherlock's thigh, slowly inching it forward, closer, closer, closer...

And then he woke with a start. John looked over to see Sherlock still asleep in the bed next to him. His mind wandered to how good Sherlock looked when he was resting, the wrinkles smoothing out of his face. John quickly reeled back his thoughts. With a groan he acknowledged his body's ache for desire and contact. This is Sherlock I'm thinking about, he criticized himself. But then his mind just echoed one word from that sentence: Sherlock.

"Morning," John said as Sherlock walked bleary-eyed into the kitchen with only pajama bottoms on. John sucked in his breath when he looked up, taking in the sight of Sherlock's muscled chest. He quickly spooned a mouthful of porridge into his mouth to shut himself up, mentally criticizing his reaction. It must have been an aftereffect of the stupid dream from last night.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes and looked down at John. "Where's Mycroft?" he asked.

"Out. Work, I think."

"Good." Sherlock grabbed bread to put in the toaster.

John waited patiently for the toast to pop up and for Sherlock to sit down across the table from him before he asked his question. "So... uh... do I get answers now?"

Sherlock had the slice of toast halfway to his mouth when John spoke. He sighed and put it back on his plate. He ran a hand through his messy curls and John tried to ignore the heat that rose to his face at the motion. "Yeah, I guess," Sherlock breathed, staring down at his plate. "Where should I start?"

"How about telling me why you left suddenly?" John winced at his own question. He knew his own fears about the answer, and gripped the table to steady himself. He didn't want Sherlock confirming those fears.

Sherlock bit his lip and looked up at John. He rarely looked as uncomfortable as he did right then. John's gut began to sink rapidly. "I..." Sherlock began. "I got a threat from Moriarty. I thought if I left, and I dragged him out of London with me, I could... uh... limit the collateral damage he'd do."

"That was fucking stupid." John barely registered the words leaving his mouth.

"Yeah, probably." Sherlock looked back down at his plate again. "Yeah. I guess it was."

"You could've answered my texts," John carried on, reliving the emotional rollercoaster he had experienced at Sherlock's departure.

Sherlock sighed. "Look, John, the whole thing was fucking stupid. Everything I'm going to say is fucking stupid. I was fucking stupid. Can we... just put that aside for right now? You can yell at me after."

John shifted in his chair. "Alright." He looked guiltily down at his bowl.

Sherlock nodded. "Alright, so I was being my fucking stupid self and staying in a house in the countryside. And I invited Moriarty over..."

"You did what?" John spluttered.

Sherlock glared at him. "We just went over this," he complained. "So I invited Moriarty over, and he threatened me in his Moriarty way, and we got into a fight, and I ended up tying him up with my scarf to the bed."

John could feel himself blushing profusely at the thought of Sherlock and Moriarty fighting on a bed. In his head it looked less like a violent fight and more like... he didn't want to think about it.

"Why are you looking at me like- oh, never mind," Sherlock commented at John's changed expression with a wave of his hand. "Then I happened to be in a particularly bad mood so I lit the house on fire and assumed he was dead. Then I came home. Then I saw the heads, and knew he wasn't dead."

"That wasn't very elaborate," John commented with a hint of suspicion in his voice.

Sherlock sighed. "Does it need to be? It's easily one of my most regrettable moments. I'm a genius. I hardly have spurts of utter stupidity, so I'd rather not dwell on them."

John could feel the corners of his mouth tugging into a smile. Sherlock and his ego. It was more fragile than he'd ever admit. "Okay," John complied. "It's fine." But in his mind he still had so many questions. He just thought it'd be better to keep them to himself than risk driving away Sherlock again. It was that kiss. He was still feeling guilty about that kiss.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, scanning John's face. "What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing."

"No, you definitely think something's wrong with my story. What is it?"

John didn't say anything.

Sherlock pursed his lips. "I don't want you to feel like I'm lying to you. It'll only cause unnecessary tension. Ask me anything and I'll tell you."

John mulled over the words in his mind. He really didn't want to upset Sherlock. "Do you know if the earth revolves around the sun, or is it the other way around?" he asked with a slight grin. A piece of toast whizzed past his head.

"Shut up," Sherlock said, breaking out into a smile himself.

Okay, he hadn't told John the entire truth, or the exact truth. But it was mostly the truth, and he really didn't want to add any details he deemed unnecessary. Such as kissing Moriarty. Totally unimportant.

Well, really he didn't want John knowing he had kissed another man. It would make their kiss seem... less significant. Yes, he had kissed Janine in front of John and staged an entire relationship for a case. But that was different. Janine wasn't Moriarty. Janine hadn't threatened the ones he cared about, and Sherlock didn't want John to think he regularly went around kissing guys. He didn't regularly go around kissing anyone. And only the kiss with John had mattered.

His head was pounding. There were so many things wrong at once. He couldn't express his growing attraction to John. He was stuck in bloody Mycroft's house. And fucking Moriarty was alive and planning his funeral. If he believed in karma, he didn't understand why solving murders and putting criminals behind bars was giving him such bad luck. Okay, he had some blood on his hand, but he had never attacked anyone who hadn't attacked him first.

Sherlock looked across the table at John's smirk. It was beautiful and he hated it. It was the same half-smile he saw in his dreams that caused him to wake up with his lower half demanding attention. It was not an issue Sherlock was used to. Even more disturbing was his growing desire for those moments. John Watson was affecting him mentally and physically in ways he could never imagine.

"I can't believe you just threw your toast at me," John laughed. The sound sent a warm shiver throughout Sherlock.

He flashed John a smile. "I can't believe I missed your head."

"You're a jerk." John scooped his spoon into his porridge and pulled back on the end, sending food catapulting across the table at Sherlock, who quickly dodged the attack.

So much for breakfast. He ripped off a piece of toast and flung it at John, hitting his nose.

"You bastard! You buttered your toast!" John chuckled, wiping the greasy remnants off his face. "I'll get you for that."

"I'm glad you shoot a gun better than you throw things," Sherlock taunted.

John shook his head. "Why do I put up with you?"

Sherlock felt a pang in his gut. Why did John put up with him? He knew John was joking, but it was a question that occasionally crossed his mind. He forced a smile and stood up. "As much as I love vandalizing Mycroft's kitchen, I really need to shower," he said, excusing himself and walking swiftly to the bathroom.

He locked the door behind him and groaned into his hands. Fucking John Watson. He stripped off his clothes and hopped into a steaming hot shower, trying to wash away all the memories that haunted him.