A/N: This chapter obviously does not want to upload. My apologies for the wait.

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They stood before each other with measured stillness. John was dressed in black, a contrast to the sickly pallor his skin had taken on. He wore tight jeans and a loose top worn under a leather jacket; none of which was his own. The hand that did not hold the gun was bandaged neatly and cradled to his chest weakly. His trainers were new and barely scuffled. Bought for him. Dressed up like Jim's own version of a doll. It didn't escape Sherlock's notice that John's hair held furrows, as if fingers had been repeatedly dragged through it. The thought of someone else touching John in such a way set the back of his neck prickling and his mouth twitching a snarl. No one was allowed to touch John, but him. Possessiveness like a thorn in his side flared violently.

As John clicked the safety off his gun, time slowed into a measured crawl; basic survival instinct took over.

Shoulder hunched inwards, bullet wound; first point of attack. Two: throat, paralyse vocal chords, stop scream that will alert passers-by. Three: weakened ribs, shot to the solar plexus. Four: finally fist to patella. Summary prognosis: unconscious in ninety seconds, martial efficacy quarter of an hour at best.

Ability to fire a bullet through head: neutralised.

There was no way around it; he had to be cruel to be kind, surely. By overpowering John he would live and free them both from his mess. Before Sherlock could act on any of his hastily prepared stratagem, something happened.

John - his fascinating, surprising John - quirked a smile.

An infinitesimal, glance of a smile, but a smile all the same. A smile that spoke of promise. It disappeared as soon as it had arrived, but the gesture was unmistakably recognisable.

"When I fire, fall to the ground." His mouth twitched as he spoke hushed and raw, barely moving his thin lips. "They're watching us."

The muscle in Sherlock's jaw jumped as he ground it, unnerved, his face empty of emotion. This new, cold-eyed John enervated him. But… what choice did he have, exactly? Either he could follow John's order and risk death, or dispute it and all but certain his murder.

In the very back of his mind, a bright light was shining – clear and as bright as the sky in June. John was back and his heart sang with it. Sherlock's mind lingered distantly on the diary he had uncovered; evidence of John's immovable trust and love. Trust. What a luxury that would be.

He made his decision. In a movement scarcely more than a twitch, Sherlock nodded, a tuck of his chin, just the once.

John's forefinger constricted around the trigger, and with a horrid, solid bang the gun fired, directly where it was aimed at the centremost of Sherlock's skull.

Flailing, Sherlock fell to the ground, head jerking backwards from the force of the bullet, lithe limbs sprawling and hitting the carpet. He lolled, as pathetic as a rag doll, to the side and his eyes fixated with a glassy cover. A crimson cascade painted the pale expanse of his forehead, a single drop running down and collecting the hollow of his temple. The shallow rise and fall of his chest ceased and stilled until he no longer moved.

John lowered the gun, a look of unsettlingly indifference over his features and waited.

After a moment of thick silence, the walkie-talkie fixed to John's waist crackled and blared.

"Well done, John I know that couldn't have been easy for you. Jim will be damn pleased." Moran's voice filtered through the device, rough and tinny. "Now drag the body inside and finish the job. Over."

With a flick of his wrist, John grasped the walkie-talkie and held it to his mouth. "Copy that, over." He stated simply, before rehooking it to his belt, stepping inside 221 and closing the door behind him with a solemn thud.

They were alone.

"Honey, I'm home." He drawled half-heartedly into the hallway.

John bent at the waist to hold his good hand out for Sherlock to take, a soft crinkle forming in the corner of his eyes. The lax figure at his feet remained frozen for a second longer before rasping out a breath and blinking away the gloss that covered his eyes. Ignoring the offered hand, Sherlock hauled himself to his feet, drawing himself up to his formidable height. A flash of something unrecognisable glinted in his expression.

John blanched, those kind eyes Sherlock had always loved glistened behind his lids. "Please don't punch me." He pleaded weakly, eying the violent bruise expanding across Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock huffed, creasing his eyebrows together with a soft groan. He felt as if a horse had kicked him square in the face. "Paintball gun. Nice."

"Well, I couldn't not shoot you," John sighed, exasperated, with a drop of his shoulders. "Moran would've taken you out. This-" He indicated the gun. "-was the best I could come up with short notice. It was that or a rubber bullet and-"

"John,"

"-Statistically that's more likely to cause damage and so I thought-"

"John,"

"-If I went with the pellet then I could fire as I would with a real bullet and not risk-"

A hand placed along the length of John's cheek stilled his nervous babble. Sherlock's lips crept up into a smile, and his voice dropped an octave lower until it was practically ripped from his throat.

"I do believe you haven't said hello, yet."

John's eyes widened with an almost childish innocence. He peered up at Sherlock with tentative hesitation. "So am I forgiven?"

"Completely." Sherlock replied instantly, mouth hanging open slightly, his expression willing John to close the distance and place their lips on each other. Stop talking already!

But still John hesitated, "I meant about everything, about this whole fucking situation. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. If I could've spared you any of this I would have. I mean, Christ, Sherlock I think I lo-"

The rest of John's words were crushed back into his mouth by Sherlock's lips and he lunged forward, sucking John's bottom lip in and refusing to release it. John's hands fumbled against Sherlock's arms before sliding around his back and pulling him in closer. Their kiss was unhurried, simply a familiarisation. The familiar, warm sensation of Sherlock's mouth against his own sent John insane; he gripped Sherlock tighter and teased his mouth open with his lips, until their tongues slid over each other. The feeling of that caused Sherlock to gasp, whining contently. Together again, at last.

Sherlock was the first to pull back, his face comically serious.

"I do expect you to be in charge of washing up for the following months, though." He smirked, unable to keep a straight face at John's horrified expression. John loathed washing up.

"Hmm, something tells me I'll be trying to find a way out of that…" John chuckled, loosening iron grip on Sherlock's frame. He captured Sherlock's slim fingers in his own, and tugged him towards the stares, "Introductions over; let's go upstairs. I'll explain everything."

Sherlock allowed himself to be led up the stairs of 221, teetering gently due to the pounding of his skull. That was sure to form into a terrific migraine later.

The two of them found their way into their living room. John shot forward to shut the blinds before Sherlock came into view from the window, hissing a quiet sigh of relief when he couldn't spot Moran's lingering figure in the empty house opposite. The 'blood' pouring from Sherlock's skull must have been enough to convince him the job had been done.

"I was sent here to kill you," John turned from the window, wincing as his shirt grazed his back wounds and switched on the lamp to repel the darkness of the impending night, "Obviously. Right now I'm supposed to be staging your suicide."

"You aren't particularly good at assassination, John." Sherlock frowned, as if this fact annoyed him, lingering in the doorway. "No one commits suicide by firing a bullet through their forehead; you should have fired at my temple or below my jaw."

John shot Sherlock with a long-suffering look. "Oh, OK; I'll remember that for the next time I'm sent to kill you – thanks for the advice." He went to settle in his armchair, but was caught by a spindly arm working its way around his waist. Sherlock guided him to the sofa and collapsed onto it, pulling John into his lap. The blonde sucked a breath in through his teeth as the arm of the sofa pressed vehemently against his back, and leaned forward to tuck his head against Sherlock's shoulder.

The two of them shifted against each other; the soft of John's belly connecting with the sharp corner of Sherlock's elbow momentarily before they slotted together like teenagers about to endeavour in a movie.

"This has gotten so out of control," John said simply. He was warm and pliant in Sherlock's arms, as if all the fight had been sucked out of him suddenly. After days of non-stop pain, confusion and suffering he finally had a moment to reflect – and it didn't look good. He peeked up from underneath his fringe; it had grown out since Sherlock had last seen him. "How much have you deduced?"

Sherlock held John's gaze. "Your dad had connections with Moriarty before yourself." In reply, John nodded slowly. It hurt to see, but Sherlock could easily recognise the flares of betrayal half hidden in his eyes. John had thought his dad a war hero – it could not have been easy to discover otherwise.

"Four years back when troops attacked our convoy, I thought it was just another band of rebels who'd spotted our vehicle. Turns out it was Moriarty's men needing my dad back." John laughed without any humour, a harsh snort. "The rebels took him, and he was presumed dead. So many men died, good men." A sigh. "Three years later I get a letter telling me my dad was alive and if I wanted I could get him back. At first, I thought it was just some sick fucker joking around, but then one night I was last to leave the cafeteria at Camp and I see a bloke walking up to me…" He shuddered noiselessly; obviously reliving the moment in his mind.

Sherlock cocked his head and stroked John's hand absentmindedly, intent. "Go on,"

With a sigh John continued, "It was Moran. He explained that my dad was being contained in a facility back in England by a guy called Moriarty, and if I ever wanted to see him again I would have to do exactly what he says. I didn't want to be believe him, but- he had photos-" John drew a breath for courage. "-Photos of my dad being tortured. So what else could I do? I said yes."

"So you were never in direct contact with Moriarty?"

"No, I didn't know who the hell he was until a week back in Afghanistan." John glanced down to where Sherlock was playing with his fingers.

Sherlock contemplated this for a few moments; "And Moran?"

"I hardly saw him up until the bank raid. He said he was supposed to look after me." John scoffed. "Yeah, like he didn't enjoy beating the shit out of me on camera. But… it was weird; he was never a bad person towards me. Ever. He was alright. So when he told me the story with him and Carl Powers, I couldn't help but feel sorry for the bloke. He even called me his friend, once."

At this, Sherlock couldn't help but start. "He must have formed an emotional attachment to you. Your predicament reflected his own."

"Exactly." John leaned further into Sherlock's lap, finding comfort in the warmth of his boyfriend's body. "He doesn't know about this though. He thinks you're dead."

"I'm almost impressed." Sherlock teased gently, and was met an amused huff. The two of them paused for breath, a natural gap forming in John's narrative.

"I'll have to leave, soon." John gave Sherlock's fingers a regretful squeeze. "They'll be expecting me at the end of the road at 10." He glanced sideways at the clock; he had forty minutes left.

"You don't have to go," Sherlock muttered softly, his lips finding place in John's soft hair. "Stay. I'll phone Mycroft and he can have his men capture Moran-" He stopped, feeling John shake his head softly.

"That'll alert Moriarty. He'll have my dad killed, Sherlock."

Sherlock almost growled in frustration; as long as John's dad remained in captivity, John was little more than a pawn in Moriarty's power. The sooner they broke that link, the sooner John would be free to act on his own will once more.

"And besides," John was still speaking, "I can't imagine your brother being particularly willing to help me out due to the fact… y'know…" He sighed, "I let Moriarty manipulate you."

Yes, there was that; Sherlock thought with a groan. Mycroft would more than likely want to take his revenge on John should he know of his presence.

"I mean, he already gave Moriarty information on my mum," John's voice became very small suddenly. His gaze fell upon his own bandaged hand, unable to meet Sherlock's gaze. "I heard Moriarty talking about it. He used it against me; said I was too pathetic to care for my own mum and that's why I joined the army."

A heavy bubble of anger grew and flexed inside Sherlock's chest. His grip on John's digits tightened to an almost dangerous extent. John peered upwards, startled, and was met with Sherlock's burning scrutiny.

"That fucking bastard." Sherlock snarled, his nose curling upwards in a snarl. John blinked in surprise; Sherlock never swore. "That fat, smarmy git. I'm going to kill him-!"

"Woh, woh, woh," John pressed a tender hand to the red flush rising on Sherlock's neck. "He's your brother, you can't expect him not to be angry-"

"He had no right!" Sherlock exploded, his chest vibrating with a repressed growl. "He had no right to cause you pain! And oh, I'm going to make him pay…"

John's frowned deepened. As much as he hated Sherlock's brother, he had no intent on turning Sherlock against him. "Could you stop plotting for just a second, yeah?" He purposefully lowered his tone, and glimpsed at Sherlock through his eyelashes. "I have to leave in a bit, so why don't we make the most of our time together?"

The blatant, frankly adorable sex face John was attempting threw Sherlock off his stride. Damn, John and his infuriating delightful appearance; he was trying to be angry here! But John persisted, the corners of his mouth tilting upwards in an endearing smile and his eyebrows raising expectantly. It was all Sherlock could do not to throw him to the floor and have him right there and then on the carpet.

But John was injured, he remembered painfully. He would have to treat him carefully.

As if handling the most delicate of evidence, he wound his arms around John's firm waist and bent his head to kiss him deeply, with as much adoration as he could muster. John went docile in his grasp and moaned softly, his unbandaged hand winding its way into Sherlock's thick curls.

Was this the right time? Should he say it now? Sherlock's eyes fluttered open and became slightly cross-eyed as he viewed John's face; so perfect in his vision. Should he tell him and make the moment perfect? But in saying the words… it almost felt like a death sentence. The first time he said it, could quickly become the last time, should John never return - and how that thought tightened his chest…

It would have to wait. He would make a time for it to be said. Even if it killed him.

John broke away from the kiss, panting, lips full and red. "I- I should go." He stuttered uncertainly, finding himself unwilling to leave the safety of Sherlock's arms.

"Go, then." Sherlock said, before he could stop himself. "Leave everything to me."

John looked at him in surprise. No longer were his eyes empty and hollow, but instead lit up with unhidden ardour. It warmed Sherlock's heart.

"I guess I'll see you around then," John tittered weakly, trying and failing to attempt a farewell smile.

"It will all turn out alright, John; I know it will." Sherlock stroked his thumb over John's cheek, reassuring himself as much as his lover. "Trust me."

"I do." John answered, then caught himself with a blush. "Trust you, I mean; I do trust you, not-"

"Oh, I do, too." Sherlock smirked, finding John's flustering endlessly endearing but needing it to stop all the same.

They shared a final, long glance before John unfolded himself from Sherlock's lap with a reluctant groan, and a hiss of pain. As he straightened, he fixed his jacket and tugged up the zip.

"Don't leave the flat or open the windows." He instructed. "You're supposed to be dead, remember."

"I'll do my best."

John turned to leave, hesitating just slightly. Sherlock did not move from the sofa, but slid his gaze from John to the coffee table. There sat a long forgotten newspaper, adorned with the headline; "BANK BOMBED IN HOSTAGE SITUATION."

A story from a life time ago.

With out another word, John made his way down the stairs of 221 and out into the hallway. Pointedly, he slammed the front door, and the flat was silent once more. It felt as if a piece of Sherlock's heart had been caught in John's pocket and taken with him.

Sherlock leant forward to grab at the newspaper and threw it inattentively to one side. Underneath lay his last packet of nicotine patches. He dredged three from the packet and placed them with meticulous fingers in line across his arm.

Evidently, it was a three patch problem.

As the drug began to course through his veins, he settled back with a contented sigh against the softness of the sofa; fingers tracing his full lips with the memory of John's imprint against them.

The crux of the problem was simply John's dad; finding and retrieving him would unravel the tangled thread of the dilemma and leave John free from Moriarty's power.

Just as the sun set, he steepled his hands in front of him.

Sherlock began to think.