"We need to talk."

Sherlock frowned. He hadn't left any body parts in their bedroom after John asked him not to, and he didn't snore. He couldn't understand the furrow between John's brows.

"I'm going back to work part time. I need you to watch Lucy while I'm at the clinic."

"Oh," Sherlock replied, surprised.

"I'm sorry, I know this is unexpected," John blurted suddenly, "but I need to go back and I need someone to take care of Lucy and I know that's a lot to ask of you, but I really don't trust anyone right now and..."

"John, relax. It's fine," Sherlock cut in. How bad could it be? He had taken care of Lucy when John was depressed, with the help of Mrs. Hudson then, but he had gotten the hang of it. Mostly. Mrs. Hudson was staying with her sister in New York, so she couldn't help now. But he could manage on his own, right? For John?

"Thank you," John said quietly. Sherlock could tell how important this was for him.

"We'll be fine," Sherlock said, forcing a smile. "I'll teach her all about letters and numbers and then we can start algebra."

John laughed. "Christ, you're serious, aren't you?"

Sherlock looked back with a confused expression. "Was it supposed to be a joke?"

"She's not even a year yet, Sherlock. It's highly unlikely she'll be doing algebra any time soon."

Sherlock scoffed. "Lucy is a brilliant baby. I'll have her doing calculus by her second birthday." He cracked a smile to show he was joking.

John slapped him on the back. "Thanks, Sherlock. I, uh, start this afternoon, actually."

Sherlock wanted to take John into his arms and hold him tight. To breathe in his lavender shampoo and the smell of his soap. To kiss the worry wrinkles on his forehead. To tell him that everything was going to be perfect, somehow, they'd find a way. Instead he just said, "Alright." and went to raid Mycroft's kitchen for anything he could experiment on. He needed a distraction from his mind. Or was it really his heart?

Mycroft's house felt nearly suffocating without John. Sure, it was an enormous house, but it was also stiff and cold like the owner. When Lucy was awake it gave him a distraction, but now she was asleep and Sherlock was restless. He needed John there to feel like the walls weren't closing in or the shadows were watching his every move.

Eventually he couldn't handle it any more. He placed the sleeping child in her stroller and left the house for a walk around London. He wandered the streets aimlessly, looking for something, anything, to distract him from thinking about John. Lately that's where all his thoughts landed if they weren't fully focused on something captivating. He stopped at a park bench and sat beneath the shade of a tree, fussing with the baby bag he had brought with him.

"Lovely baby," a voice said. "Looks so much like her father."

"I'm not..." Sherlock began, then glanced up and paled.

"She's beautiful."

"Yes. And she looks like her mother too."

"I would hope so. Mind if I join you?"

"Go ahead."

"What's her name?"

"Lucy. That's what you wanted. He named her Lucy."

"Lucy," Mary cooed, leaning over the sleeping baby. There were tears glistening in her eyes.

It really was Mary. She looked quite different, however. Her hair was dyed a deep chestnut color and she was wearing makeup that contoured her face differently. She had noticeably lost weight, and the gauntness of her cheeks suggested it was from lack of food. Mary looked like she had been to war, and it had taken a toll on her. But she also looked undeniably strong. Her jaw was set in a way that suggested she was confident and determined in her actions. This wasn't a chance encounter. Mary had sought him out.

Sherlock let her have some time to absorb the sight of her child that she never got to hold. It was what John would want him to do. Show compassion. Think about others. But before long his curiosity won the fight over his consciousness.

"How?" he demanded.

Mary looked up at him with her deep blue eyes. "In short: not dead."

Sherlock almost hated himself for smiling. "But John. And Lucy. Why? How?"

"Not here, Sherlock," Mary whispered. There was clear pain in her voice. "It's not safe here."

"Let me help you. You know I'd do anything to help you."

She gave him a sad smile. "No. You'd do anything to protect John. And I would too. That's why I'm here. And that's why you can't tell him."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably on the bench. "I can't keep this from John."

"Yes you can. There are many things you keep from John. No, don't protest. I'm not daft, you know. And if you care at all about me, or John, or Lucy, you won't breathe a word of this to anyone."

"Tell me. Tell me what happened."

Mary glanced at the watch on her wrist. "Not today, I'm afraid. I'll find you again, Sherlock."

"Mary, you can't go. I need to know."

"Not here. Not in London. It's not safe here."

"Where then?" Sherlock narrowed his eyes, trying to deduce as much as he could from Mary Watson. But she was intelligent and nearly unreadable.

"Paris is nice this time of year," she said casually, standing up. "I'm sure John would love to get out of Mycroft's for the weekend and spend some time in France."

"Paris is a big city."

"I'll find you, Sherlock." She leant down and pressed a soft kiss to Lucy's forehead. Sherlock was not one for emotions, but he could feel the pain in his chest that he knew Mary must feel too, leaving behind her loved ones. Faking her death. It was a pain he was familiar with.

He watched her walk away. As if she had never been there. She disappeared into the London crowds, possibly never to be seen again. And his head ached desperately from the sudden confrontation.

"How was the clinic?" Sherlock asked when John burst through the door.

"Busy," John replied gruffly, picking Lucy up from the blanket she was crawling upon.

"We didn't master calculus but I think we're getting somewhere with counting," Sherlock said, trying to pull a smile from his flatmate.

John just grunted. "I think I'll head to bed early. Night, Sherlock."

"John, wait."

John stopped where he was but didn't turn around. "What now, Sherlock?"

The stress in his voice was almost painful for Sherlock's ears. He gulped before speaking. "I was just thinking... things have been stressful lately, and, well maybe it'd be good to get out of Mycroft's for a bit. And get away from London. I thought Paris might sound nice."

Now John was facing him with a puzzled look. "Did the French government ask you for help again?"

"Not recently. This has nothing to do with any cases."

John furrowed his forehead before slackening his face with fear. "Moriarty?"

Sherlock sighed. "No. I just don't want to stay here. I need to get away."

"Then go."

Sherlock bit his lip. "I wanted to bring you with me," he managed after some time.

John walked back into the room and sat on the arm of a chair, perched precariously as though ready to sprint if needed. "Why? Why do you want to bring me?"

Sherlock's mind went into overdrive. "I'd be lost without my blogger," he tried with a forced smile.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

John looked down at his hands. "Don't do this, Sherlock. I can't. I can't do this with you."

Sherlock tensed, gripping the armrests. "I don't understand."

"You're the fucking detective. Figure it out."

"John, you're upset. Did I do something? Just tell me what I did."

"I... I can't, Sherlock, don't you see? I can't go through this. Because in the end, you're going to leave, and I'm going to break. And I can't go through that again." John's face was twisted with emotion and his dark blue eyes glistened.

Sherlock stood up and walked over to where John sat. He crouched before him, wincing at the way John flinched back ever so slightly. "I'm not leaving you, John Watson," he murmured. "I'm right here. Right in front of you." He placed a hand lightly on John's knee. "See?"

"Sherlock," John said, voice cracking.

"John. Please. I never want to leave you. And even... even when I've been gone, I've never stopped looking out for you. I'll never completely leave you John. I couldn't bear to stay away."

"But you were still gone, Sherlock. What am I supposed to do when I can't see you?"

"Shh. I'm right here. You can see me right now." Sherlock looked into John's eyes, wishing he could understand everything he was unable to convey. "Let's go to Paris, John."

John placed a hand lightly over Sherlock's, and Sherlock took a chance and turned it over gently so he could entwine his fingers in John's. John looked down at their interlaced fingers.

"This, Sherlock. Don't do this to me." He looked pleadingly into Sherlock's eyes but didn't remove his hand.

Sherlock bit his bottom lip and glanced longingly at their hands. He stood up and started to slowly pull away.

It was then that John did something Sherlock had only fantasized about. A hand reached up to cup his cheekbone, freezing him in place, fingers still brushed against John's. And suddenly, soft lips were pressed against his, searching for comfort, fitting so perfectly.

More than anything, Sherlock wanted to press into the kiss. He wanted to wrap his arms around John and hold him close. Wanted to open his mouth and let John in. Wanted to confess his love and adoration. He simply wanted John.

But Paris wasn't about Sherlock and John. Paris was about John and Mary. And he had vowed. He had made his promise to do anything possible to protect them. Of course, when he did so, it had been with the belief that John could never love him. Not the way he loved John. The idea of a shared kiss had been nothing more than a fantasy, like the kisses in children's books after the prince slays the dragon. But still, John had picked Mary. Technically, John was still married to Mary. And Sherlock had a sickening thought that if John knew Mary was out there, alive, he would have never considered kissing Sherlock.

He could feel John's body seeking comfort in his own, and it was enough to make him pull away. He couldn't. He couldn't kiss John with the knowledge that Mary was alive, or the idea that the kiss was just an act of desperation for comfort without real feelings.

"John," Sherlock murmured, opening his eyes. He shook his head slightly. "I can't."

John hadn't meant to punch Sherlock. Really, he hadn't. It just sort of... happened. One moment he was letting go and giving into the emotions that had been welling up inside him. He had kissed Sherlock. Hadn't Sherlock wanted that?

But Sherlock had pulled away. Sherlock had said no. And John couldn't help but feel played. The next thing he knew, his fist had connected to Sherlock's face, and the taller man was clutching his nose.

"You bastard!" John shouted.

"What the fuck, John!" Sherlock screamed back, his words muffled slightly by his hand. Blood was beginning to pour.

"You fucking played me, you cock!" John yelled. "Dammit Sherlock! You kissed me first!"

"What are you talking about?" Sherlock asked, his voice eerily calm.

"At the bloody bar! I remember! Don't think I don't remember. You kissed me first. Dammit, Sherlock, I thought you wanted this."

Sherlock removed his hand, letting John see the blood flowing like a river and dripping off his chin. He tried to wipe it away, but simply smeared it instead. "I do," he whispered.

"What?"

"I do. I want this. I want you. Fuck, John, I think you broke my nose."

John reached out, placing his hand back in Sherlock's. "You ass. Why did you just say no?"

"Because you're not thinking clearly. You're upset. I don't want you to do something you'll regret."

John smirked. He hated himself for it, but he smirked. "You mean like break your nose?"

And he swore if Sherlock could laugh without pain he would've.

"Sherlock," John said, dropping the sound of his voice. "I want you too." Carefully he stood on his toes and placed a gentle kiss on Sherlock's jaw. "Let's go fix your nose before Mycroft flips about your blood getting everywhere."

Sherlock's head was spinning and it had nothing to do with the blow to his face. John wanted him. John Watson wanted him. Maybe he was hallucinating. Maybe the hit had knocked him out and this was all a dream. But it was a damn good one. He let John guide him to the bathroom and clean up his face. He couldn't even be mad that John had broken his nose because John wanted him.

Mary's face swam into his vision, but this time he pushed it away. Yes, he was certain of two things. He loved John Watson. And if there was a hell, he'd gladly embrace it if it meant that even for a moment, John Watson was his.

But as selfish as he was, he wouldn't stop John from returning to Mary if that's what he wanted. He would sacrifice his happiness for John's. Hell, he'd even sacrificed his life for John before. It was worth it.

"So Paris?" he asked as John cleaned the blood off his hands.

"Paris," John replied, smiling at Sherlock through the mirror. He wiped his hands and planted a gentle kiss on Sherlock's lips. This time, Sherlock kissed back.

Really sorry it took me so very long to update this! This one is probably my favorite and I wanted to make sure I did it right. Please comment!