Typical! I upload and ff does it's pathetic whimper of defeat and collapses it's emails for the night! I'm starting to fear I'm cursed if i don't update for a few days!

I figured as I left it a week to update that I would be lovely and update today as well! And will now go and backtrack through reviews :)

Enjoy

It was only later that night as Ava snuggled into John while watching some film about a child magician that Sherlock realised he'd been ignoring the evidence that had been right in front of his face.

John winced as Ava shifted, then caught Sherlock's eye unintentionally.

Whatever the man saw was enough to make John wince again and mouth the word "later" over Ava's head. That, however, wasn't enough to prevent Sherlock from standing up and retrieving his coat as he slammed out of the flat, aborting John's weary attempt to call him back.

Outside Mycroft's car sat waiting and his bodyguard/chauffer/PA of the month stepped into Sherlock's path.

"Your brother would like a word, before you terrorise prisoners." The man said in a cultured and rather uninterested tone of voice.

Sherlock threw him a filthy glance and moved to side step him and carry on his way. But the innocuous man across the street stopped what he was doing and the rather sweet looking woman ahead of him folded her arms.

Sherlock slowed to a stop and turned his head slightly in the direction of the man. "I will not be summoned," he hissed.

The man made no comment, and seemed to have no interest in making a comment. He merely opened the car door and waited.

Sniffing, Sherlock haughtily made his way to the door, giving the man a once over as he did so.

"Your mother's entertaining your gardener." He offered silkily as he slid in. There was a moment of delicious triumph as he managed to make one of Mycroft's handpicked nonchalant employee's falter.

But then they were the easiest to read; upsetting Mycroft's people had always been his favoured sport as a teenager.

Lestrade looked relieved to have Mycroft in his office, which was probably the first time in their combined history that had happened; usually Mycroft served to make Lestrade snippy and fractious.

Sherlock tapped his fingers on the desk as he read the statement John had given and the confession from Calvier.

"Do you have to do that?" Lestrade asked sounding annoyed.

Sherlock raised his eyes to Lestrade, then started tapping more pointedly and with less rhythm, making Lestrade's mouth twist and his eyes roll.

Entered the flat…ransacking Sherlock's room…startled intruder…broken glass…

"You cleaned it up," Sherlock muttered. "It was why everything looked exactly the same."

"I had thought you'd notice the minute you stepped through the door." Mycroft said as he sat on the chair, legs crossed and flipping through a file. "Distracted were you?"

"I could say the same to you brother dear. That's twice I've had an uninvited visitor in my flat, despite your "security"."

"It was monitored." Mycroft answered smoothly.

Sherlock stopped tapping and Lestrade glanced over at Mycroft in surprise.

"You let them him go in?" Lestrade asked sounding horrified.

Sherlock didn't bother to turn. "Which of us were you testing?" he spat with fury.

Mycroft's unconcerned sigh was terribly loud, "Alerting James Moriarty to the surveillance will simply invite him to find other ways around it. I would prefer to not enter into an escalating game of cat and mouse."

Sherlock shoved away from the desk as he stood and turned to his brother, "He was in my flat!" he snarled.

"Yes. Taking a picture, leaving a present. Rooting around your room." Mycroft shook his head, still not looking up. "It's all rather childish isn't it?"

"Calvier was-" Sherlock broke off and turned to Lestrade. "Go away."

"It's my office."

"I'd leave Inspector. You'll get nothing out of him while he's having a tantrum anyway." Mycroft commented.

Lestrade glanced between the two as if he couldn't believe his bad luck at having ever stepped foot in the same room as them and then, with an exasperated movement, stormed out; slamming the door behind him pointedly.

"Your melodramatic attitude seems to be spreading."

"He was in the flat while John and I were…" Sherlock broke off, unsure how to phrase it.

"I apologise. Should I have blocked the door with roses and sunbeams? Perhaps left a polite note to advice Mr Calvier to try the following morning? Explained that your home is your sanctuary and the big bad thief should think twice about daring to open the door?" Mycroft's voice grew firmer. "Do not be precious Sherlock; I doubt the man pressed his ear to the door to hear your earnest whispers of ardour; your sex life is not of interest to a paid thief."

Sherlock threw the paperweight at Mycroft's head before he registered it was in his hand. As expected his brother merely moved his head with the same level of interest and concern he had shown when Sherlock had thrown balled up socks at him when they were children.

"I do not want Moriarty anywhere near-"

"You are being ridiculously foolish," Mycroft snarled suddenly looking up. "Your years away from John Watson had turned him into some idealistic damsel in your head. The man does not need you to protect him and neither of you need me to step in because someone is wandering around your flat. You are both capable of taking care of that yourselves and, had I jumped in, do you really think that Moriarty would have been satisfied with just ordering another snoop?"

A very long, very irritated huff erupted from the door.

John leaned against the frame, glaring at Mycroft with such utter annoyance that Sherlock almost felt jealous as the sight of John aiming that particular expression at anyone other than him.

Mycroft gazed heavenwards at the ceiling and closed the folder, "Get on with it then," he offered. "I'm sure you have some more choice words to add to Sherlock's sulk."

But John glanced between the two of them in a long, slow motion, then straightened himself and walked to the desk. He stopped at Sherlock's side, reached out, grabbed the statement, closed it and picked the file up.

Then, with a polite smile, he walked out.

Sherlock and Mycroft exchanged a look.

"That was mildly unexpected," Mycroft said after a minute.

Sherlock glared at him and then made his way to the door.

"You understand?" Mycroft's voice was uncharacteristically concerned. "The logic behind my motives. At no point were any of you at risk and I would like to keep it that way."

"Don't get sentimental brother. It doesn't become you." Sherlock said and risked a small glance at Mycroft to see his shoulders ease at the message.

It was probably as close as they'd ever come to agreeing at the end of a discussion.

"Finished?" John asked as he sat with Lestrade at a desk in the quiet office.

Stalking to a chair, Sherlock sat and picked up the mug shot of Calvier, "There's something wrong with the confession I assume?"

"We can't pin a connection to Moriarty on him." Lestrade sighed, "Or find any evidence of how Moriarty contacted him."

"You were expecting to?" Sherlock asked studying the black eye Calvier sported in the picture.

"We were hoping to find something that would help you," John muttered, scraping a hand over his face. "A lead…a number…something."

Sherlock glanced over at the man, wondering how on earth he could manage to be so surprising this many times in one night.

"I need coffee," he told Lestrade.

"Machines in the corridor, " Lestrade replied absently.

"Greg," John said quietly.

Lestrade glanced up, snapped out of the evidence descriptors at the tone. "Bloody hell," he muttered, "You are aware that you're both not meant to be here while I actually work here."

Sherlock shot him an icy stare, "Work?" he queried doubtfully.

"Sherlock," John muttered in a clear warning. "Just…please Greg, five minutes?"

Lestrade took a deep breath. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock chucked a twenty at him. "Go and find us descent coffee rather than the pig's swill that comes out of your machines."

"You're paying me to leave?"

"I'm paying you to get coffee," Sherlock corrected. "Unless you wished to try your hand at theft?"

Lestrade snatched the money up, "I'm not giving you change," he muttered as he walked away. "Call it hazard pay."

"How dense is the man if getting coffee is considered a hazard?" Sherlock muttered under his breath.

"Has Mycroft gone?" John asked as he closed up what he'd been reading.

"Yes, but it doesn't mean he isn't watching." Sherlock stared at John's hand as it rested on the table temptingly. "How much did you hear?"

John shook his head, "I have had this argument with him," He said patiently, "You simply weren't here for rounds one, two and three."

Sherlock raised an amused eyebrow, "You managed three arguments with my brother in six days?"

John smiled slightly, "Living with you has been excellent practice."

Sherlock let loose a small chuckle, more out of relief than humour. "You seem to be taking it well."

John shrugged, "It makes an annoying amount of sense. It's cold," he added with an edge to his voice, "But damned practical."

"That's Mycroft," Sherlock said, edging his hand closer to John's. "You are aware that Calvier is a dead end. Moriarty probably wiped out anything useful the moment you dragged him out the door."

John flashed a smile at the memory, clearly proud of that. "It was worth a look. Anything that might speed this up is worth a look."

With careful precision Sherlock raised his index finger and let it slide over John's in a touch that was barely there and made his skin shiver. "There is however a man called Balan Janda that may provide some answers."

John's thumb opened away from his fingers and stroked the nail on Sherlock's. "Yeah?" he asked cautiously.

"He stumbled across a man who seems to have been caught in Moriarty's web. Unwillingly employed one might say, and is trying to help. He has taken it upon himself to be something of a mediator."

John pulled a face, "Try not to be your obnoxious self," he warned.

Clearing his throat Sherlock slipped his finger further along John's, "It may be…more productive if you were to talk to him."

The thumb paused. "Me?"

"I have been told I can occasionally irritate religious do-gooders."

John huffed out a laugh, "You? You're usually the soul of understanding." He sobered, "Or at least you usually don't give a toss about irritating people."

"He is trying to do a good thing. He should probably talk to a good man while doing it."

John clicked his jaw, "And while I'm doing this…?"

"There are some less good men I could talk to." Sherlock replied as the thumb started stroking again.

"So this is…an olive branch?"

"A start," Sherlock confirmed. "Though, if anything does happen, I feel I should remind you that Sikh's carry a small blade with them that may be useful in the event of an attack."

John glared at him, "I'm not using a religious symbol to…stab someone."

"For god's sake John, it was what the Kirpin was originally intended for."

"We'll just stick with me having a chat with him shall we?" John huffed in irritation, "Rather than planning my possible defensive methods against hypothetical attacks."

"As you wish," Sherlock glanced down at the files. And then up as John leaned forward and nudged their lips together carefully.

It was slow, achingly slow and careful as if Sherlock was the one who was injured.

As the thought occurred Sherlock pulled back, "How bad was the damage?"

"It's fine Sherlock-" John started in a patient tone.

Unconvinced Sherlock reached out for the hem of John's shirt.

"Sherlock!" John hissed looking horrified, "We're in the middle of an office used by police that do have night shifts."

"Who are out protecting our great city," Sherlock muttered, working on the buttons.

"I'm not striping!" John tried to pull away and then hissed when he moved.

"Of course you're not stripping; you're allowing a damage assessment."

John made some stuttering noise and then threw up his hands in defeat as Sherlock opened the shirt and tugged at the dressing.

"Lestrade had better have gone to Starbucks," John said as Sherlock peeled the tape away from the skin.

"No , he's gone to Nero's. He has some issue with Starbucks."

John huffed out a laugh, "How can you possibly know that?"

"Have you ever looked in his bin," Sherlock asked as he re-stuck the tape on John's belly to keep it close to hand when redoing the dressing.

"No," John said, as if that were the sane and obvious answer.

"That's why you miss things," Sherlock scolded gently. "He'll be another five minutes yet."

The wound was jagged. It looked as if John had been viciously scraped with glass-

Broken glass it had said in the report.

"What did he use?"

"That jar on your third shelf with the dead rat in it."

Sherlock glanced at the wound, "Ah. I imagine that was unexpected."

"For him." John looked down at him with an expression that was almost tender. "I was half expecting something really disgusting."

Feeling a sudden surge of fondness Sherlock reached up and wrapped his hand around the back of John's neck. "You are a wonder John."

"Yes, well," John shifted seemingly a little uncomfortable and the compliment, "I've also had more needles shoved into me than I care to remember for this. You'll be glad to know that I don't have the plague!"

This time when Sherlock let out a laugh it was fully amused. He lifted his head and pressed a deep kiss against John's ear. "A complete wonder," he whispered.

An answering peck on his shoulder was all the reply he needed. "Go on then, get me dressed, otherwise your secret will be out," John said leaning back.

Sherlock paused, in the process of pressing the fabric against the wound again. "My secret?"

John nodded and then rolled his eyes, "I don't mind Sherlock."

"You're friends," Sherlock said slowly, "You and "Greg"."

"Yes?" John huffed and placed his own hand over the fabric before starting to replace the tape. "But he's your friend too and you work with him. It's up to you when he knows Sherlock."

Oh.

Sherlock pulled back as he watched John redress the wound, probably quicker then he would have managed. It was fascinating to watch how deft his hands were and how confident and calm he was about the situation.

"How much pain are you in?"

John glanced over at him warily, "It's fine Sherlock, unless your five year old daughter jabs an elbow into it."

"And…how much strenuous activity would you recommend you can participate in?"

John grinned at him, eye's lighting up in amusement, "Are you propositioning me?" he asked.

"Yes."

"I can't believe the most polite sexual invitation I've ever had has just come from you!" John's chest danced as he tried not to laugh.

Sherlock leaned over and buttoned up John's remaining buttons. "When we get back home I intend to lay you out on my bed and suck your brains out through your cock. Do you think you could manage that?"

John's eyes widened in shock and Sherlock leaned back smugly as Lestrade's footsteps made their way over. John blinked at the sound, pupils blown.

"You wanker," he muttered.

"Not tonight John." Sherlock opened the file again, "Inspector I do hope that coffee is hot." He called out.

They were both damp with sweat by the time they finished. And, despite the intoxicating sight of John's taut muscles and the way their lips captured each other's gasps, there was always something wondrous in the moments after; when John was relaxed and calm and willing to let Sherlock just explore.

He would never, ever be able to get enough of this man.

Sherlock had scooted down the bed and allowed their legs to tangle together as he pressed a gentle kiss to John's belly. From earlier ministrations he knew that John was ticklish and glanced up at the hidden wound, wanting desperately to map out the developing scars and make them his.

Instead he kept to John's stomach, disliking the thought of John in pain.

The man had delicious hip bones though. It was enthralling to study the join of thigh and hip. To note the lines and muscles and sinews that pieced John together and gave him shape. To see how fine the hair became and how silky smooth the unmarred skin was at the join.

Under him John stirred and buried a gentle hand in his hair. "Do you never just enjoy your afterglow."

"I am." Sherlock nipped gently and felt John smile.

The hand in his hair became a gentle finger that brushed the strands away from his forehead.

"You'll run out of places to explore." John warned gently. "Should save some."

Sherlock smiled against the skin and dipped a hand behind John's knee stroking with a feather light touch, noting with victory as John's cock gave an interested twitch and John's breathe jolted.

"There are always area's for improvement," Sherlock said turning his head as he kissed down the inside of John's thigh, "New parameters, new predictions to test."

John shifted under him as if he couldn't decide to encourage or deter Sherlock.

"How many times have you managed in one night?" Sherlock asked licking a torturously slow path back up to John's hips.

"I…three." John gasped, wriggling a little. "That was years ago though."

Sherlock nuzzled up to John's throat, "New records to break."

Strangled laughter echoed above him, "You're going to kill me." John warned.

"Never," Sherlock caught an earlobe between his teeth as he dipped his hand down. John arched at the touch and then hissed in pain.

Instantly Sherlock backed off and glanced down at the dressing. A glance at John's face confirmed that he'd pulled one of the stitches.

Annoyed at himself Sherlock slid off John and tried to look at it but John caught his hands and sighed.

"It's fine," he said stroking a soothing hand over Sherlock's cheek. "Just…can you get a clean towel?"

Nodding Sherlock stood, throwing his dressing gown on and padding out to the kitchen. When he came back in John had pulled the dressing away and was studying the bleeding wound.

He didn't look at Sherlock but held his hand out for the towel, then pressed it against the wound carefully.

"It's the universe getting its own back," John commented suddenly.

"What?"

"On you." John raised his eyes to Sherlock's, "For being such a git and tormenting me with sex until I can barely remember my name. I should at least be allowed the chance to do the same back to you."

"Don't get glassed then," Sherlock snapped.

John's eyes narrowed and he held out his spare hand to Sherlock. Hating the feeling churning inside of him Sherlock sat back on the bed and allowed John's hand to cup the back of his head.

"I'm fine," he reiterated leaning over to press a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "I promise."

"Stop moving about, you'll make it worse," Sherlock muttered, pressing John gently back onto the pillow.

"Yes Nurse Holmes." John teased.

Sherlock lifted the towel and John's hand to study the progress. The wound was bleeding much slower now and seemed to be easing up.

"You aren't allowed to die," he said suddenly.

It was childish. Pathetic. As if he could stop it just by saying it and yet, at that moment, he wished with everything he had it was true. Swallowing he avoided John's gaze, waiting for the light teasing tone that would try to soothe Sherlock by reminding him that it was highly unlikely John would die from this injury.

Instead though a steady hand touched his chin and with a gentleness that was Sherlock's undoing, nudged his face up until his eyes met John's.

"Ok." John said simply.

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

PS - Ava is at Mrs Hudson's. She's a handy lady for both John and me!

PPS - I visited a Sikh temple at school last week - most fascinating and enjoyable RE trip ever and (i'm so british) they had the best tea on the planet. No word of a lie. I would have happily drank that for the rest of my life!