Thanks for the reactions from the last chapter :)

And, in typical fashion, I changed my mind and we're still at the start of Febuary!

February 2nd (Thursday)

It had never been his intention to say it; the words had just slipped out.

Sherlock stared ahead at the television, the screen blank and the little red light glaring accusingly at him. The image of Ava's thoughtful little face as she had tried to understand the basic concept of homophobia emblazoned in his mind's eye.

They think we're wrong to love each other.

Love.

It was hardly a foreign concept. On some level Sherlock could accept that he had been surrounded by familial love all his life: from his quiet coward of a father who had a gentle unobtrusive love; his domineering mother who had a fierce and determined love and Mycroft who had an interfering version. There had been his grandmother for whom he'd felt a curious fondness for and an Uncle who had indulged his love of science and experiments. That was the kind of family connection that bound people together; that insisted no matter how terrible they were as a collective they were still summoned together at births, marriages and deaths despite having little in common. It was as old as time and inscribed upon most humans. The kind of love that demanded protection and provision and that was as inescapable as the blood in his veins and the carbon dioxide in the air.

But that wasn't the love he was considering.

There was a choice involved in this. He could choose how he felt about John Watson. He could choose how to define the word that he was expected to use in reference to the only partner he had ever consider using the word for.

Love was a word battered around by the masses, by foolish teenagers who thought they knew the world and all it had to offer at their tender age, by cheating spouses who excused their actions as inescapable and by the ordinary, dull and insipid.

There was no clearer example than his own parents. His father; who was so monotonously dull that even Mycroft, who could discuss issues with moronic minded politicians all day, could barely manage a few hours a year with the man, was a classic example of someone who placed all blame upon loves door. The first affair, that Sherlock had inadvertently revealed, was excused with fevered justifications from a man who claimed to be in love with two different women and a slave to both. Who, despite weighing claim to the emotion many a time, had never truly shown any such feelings by his actions.

That love was meaningless and barely worth the time or effort it took to lay claim to it.

Then there had been his mother. Strong, stubborn and fiercely determined who loved with everything she had, and tried to fix everything she loved. There had always been room for improvement, always some distant goal to aim for.

If that was love then he could quite happily claim to feel nothing of the sort for John.

Lestrade loved his ex-wife. Loved her to the point of weakness and his own downfall. While Sherlock's mother had torn the object of her affections to shreds, Lestrade had shredded himself trying to forgive and forget.

Sherlock wasn't that selfless.

Mycroft had fallen in love, foolishly in love as a young man. He had put on an act and a show, spoiling the young lady and performing like a true thespian.

Sherlock wasn't that patient, or that dedicated. John accepted him as he was; it therefore seemed foolish to take that from him or pretend otherwise.

Molly had loved him from afar. She'd swallowed down his thoughtless comments and suffered through his blind eye. She'd endured humiliation and, at some point, had accepted that her love was unrequited.

Yet despite that she had helped him, offered him whatever he needed and never complained about the burden he placed on her.

Sherlock weighed that up for a moment and then dismissed it as a sort of love he was likely incapable of.

He wasn't that good a person, no matter what John might say.

In the end he filed the issue away for another day. John hadn't pressed for more information but had simply left Sherlock to his thoughts.

Besides, even three patches weren't helping solve this problem.

While John distracted Ava with some animated cartoon at the cinema (and there wasn't enough nicotine in the world to bribe Sherlock to go to that) Sherlock made his way through Scotland Yard's office and to Lestrade.

The Inspector shoved something into the closest drawer when he spotted him.

"Sherlock?" Lestrade looked a little flustered. "Did you…why are you here?"

Interesting. Sherlock swept his gaze over Lestrade; "They pulled you in…" Sherlock tilted his head, taking in the mismatched socks and the remaining stains of a hasty breakfast eaten on the go. "Very early…" He added, spotting the mountain of coffee cups in the bin behind Lestrade.

"Sherlock-"

As Lestrade was often pointing out, he was hardly the only Inspector on the force. Which meant Lestrade had been called in ridiculously early not because he was the next senior officer on shift but because…

"What was the threat?" Sherlock asked calmly.

"Threat?"

"Yes, the threat." Sherlock snapped, "The threat against me, what was it."

Lestrade sighed and pulled open the drawer behind where he was braced against the desk and pulled out the folder barely looking at the brown card.

"He was found last night, near one of Roberts' clubs. Some officer thought it was you at first."

Sherlock pulled out the photographs of the bloated and water logged body, noting the superficial resemblance to him.

And the neat bullet hole in the centre of the forehead.

"He wasn't weighted-"

"He was meant to be found." Sherlock closed the folder. "Do not let John see this," he ordered.

Lestrade took a deep swig of coffee, "You can't keep him in the dark again Sherlock."

"I have no intention of keeping the information from him, merely the pictures."

"He's a doctor-"

"I don't want him reminded of-" Sherlock broke off and closed his eyes, centring himself and shutting out Lestrade's almost sorrowful expression. "He does not need to see this."

Lestrade nodded sharply. "I'll send out a memo."

Sherlock barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes, even as his mind skittered away from the look on John's face at St Barts all those years ago.

"Why are you here anyway?" Lestrade asked tucking the folder away again and seemingly eager for a change of subject.

Oh, yes. That.

"I have come to make a complaint."

Lestrade shot him a disbelieving look and then stood up and walked around to his side of the desk. "God, what now?"

"There's been a case of gross homophobia."

Lestrade sat down looking pained. "Right…" he said, sounding doubtful.

"At Ava's school."

Lestrade blinked at him. "Are you taking the piss?" he asked after a minute.

"I can assure you I have better things to do with my day." Sherlock replied haughtily. "You however can be spared to do one of those god awful assembly talks."

"I would have thought that assemblies would have gone the same way as your knowledge of the solar system." Lestrade muttered, taking a deep sip of coffee and glaring at him over the rim.

One day he would make John pay for that bloody blog.

"Yes, well, when you are forced to sit and listen to an in depth summary of the damned event every Tuesday, Wednesday and every other Friday, it seems a waste of time continuously deleting."

Lestrade shifted forward, "You want me to go to a primary school and tell a bunch of kids off?"

"Yes. Consider it your useful deed for the year."

Lestrade studied him and glanced down at the drawer that still held the folder of the unfortunate murder victim who had been killed as Sherlock's only warning from Moran.

"I assume this will be the point that you insist I do not insult your team members for a case." Sherlock said, disliking the contemplative pity that was starting to creep on to Lestrade's face as he clearly toyed with the idea of just saying yes to Sherlock's request.

Thankfully his words did their work and Lestrade tore his gaze back up, seeming to shake himself. "Four." He said, starting the negotiation.

Sherlock let him have two.

4th February

The man had been engaged, had a son who was three months old and had been returning to work after a long illness.

Sherlock stared at the file unsure how to feel about all that.

It wouldn't help; feeling guilty. It would help nothing at all and he'd had no part in the death of Adam Garret. Still there was a twinge of something that Sherlock intended to use as anger and ferocity against Moran.

When he got back into the flat it was to the smell of fresh paint and shrieking laughter echoing from upstairs.

Ava's infectious giggles and John's soothing, amused tones drew him up the second flight of stairs like a magnet to north.

Inside Ava's room, John and she stood admiring their handy-work. John was in an old t-shirt and jeans that had seen better days while Ava was swimming in another of John's old shirts that covered her leggings and t-shirt underneath. The pair of them were streaked with lilac, pink, powder blue and a sunny yellow from their testing session.

Which apparently included just painting pictures straight onto the wall.

A closer look at the wall revealed that Ava had been practicing her letters with the thick paint brush that was in danger of dripping paint onto the floorboards. Their names were scrawled messily across the smooth walls.

John, Ava, Sherlock.

Though it looked as if John had needed to add in a few letters to their names to correct her work.

Sherlock stood in the doorway, observing Ava carefully.

The power of a child's mind was truly amazing. A few treats; some time and affection lavished; and a long, careful talk had erased all of her worries. To look at her one wouldn't know that she'd been sobbing her heart out days ago, convinced that she'd caused trouble for him and John.

In fact, she was now staunchly stubbornly protective about their relationship. He'd caught her watching people when he and John had taken her out to the shops as if gauging their threat level and narrowing her eyes at anyone who looked too long.

As if either one of them needed a five year old defending them.

It was strangely gratifying though.

"Look," Ava launched towards him, having spotted him at last. "We're painting," she told him, waving the saturated brush dangerously close to his coat.

Thankfully John caught her with a deft hand and spun her up so that her head lay on his shoulder thoughtfully.

"I can see, Sherlock replied, eyeing up their work.

Ava wriggled a bit and John obediently let her loose again, watching as she darted away from them to the paint pot in the corner.

"You should escape," John said after a moment of watching her, "You'll be covered in paint if you stay up here much longer."

Sherlock nodded, but then something caught his eye in the opposite edge of the room.

I believe in SH

Stunned he walked over, pressing his hand against the almost dried paint.

"Daddy told me that people did that all the time while you were away," Ava announced proudly. "We saw one of the bank ment."

"Embankment," John corrected gently.

Ava nodded, as if she'd said the correct word to begin with.

He'd heard of it. Dimly. Back then it had been too raw to follow the English news too closely and too dangerous in case there had been a mention of John that he may not have been able to ignore. But there had been a brief run in a French newspaper that had been impossible to ignore. It had showed the graffiti that had started to spring up around London, detailed clients that had fiercely refused to belief that he could have been a fake.

Sherlock had given in and scoured that newspaper for days before deciding that following the situation truly would just distract him. But it had certainly given him the jolt he needed to snap out of the contemplative guilt that had been stirring within his gut for the first four months as he lay low so as not to arouse anyone's suspicions.

Refocusing he narrowed his eyes at the message now painted on Ava's wall in a sugared plum colour. There was something about the writing…

It wasn't John's typical hand – far too thick for a natural paint stroke and too arty for John – and yet he had replicated almost perfectly the aged and faded paint smears that Sherlock had glimpsed left over from the campaign all those years ago.

"You followed it," Sherlock muttered, examining the lines.

"Daddy said we did one once." Ava curled up close to John's legs, catlike in her approach. "At night time when I was a baby."

Sherlock turned to John with some disbelief and John just shrugged.

"Well…that hooligan owed me," he said avoiding Sherlock's gaze. "Raz showed me how to do it."

Sherlock glanced back at the message. "Where did you write it?" he asked.

Now John really was avoiding his eyes, "Oh…it was years ago." He said bending to the paint tins. "Besides, Lestrade was far better than I was."

As a distractive topic John had picked a good one. The image of Inspector Lestrade grafitying was both amusing and…well. There was a traitorous stir of sentimentality in there too.

It was also supremely stupid to give him the name of two people who could tell Sherlock where John had scrawled the message.

"Right madam," John said when Sherlock remained silent, chasing his thoughts around as he stared at the wall. "Which colour shall we have?"

It took twenty minutes to work out why John looked uncomfortable revealing where he had written his message.

Sherlock had visited St Barts, stood at the pavement, the scene of his greatest deception but he had never walked to where John had gotten out of the taxi, to where John had stood during that phone conversation.

And, there on the side of the building that had helped to block John's view, was a message.

It was done precisely but the repetitive lines showed that John had shook as he had used the spray can. It was yellow, a throwback to one of their earliest cases together.

It wasn't the whole message. Just the words "I believe."

And, at the end was a hand print and a smaller one next to it.

It was incredible just how small Ava's hand had been. She couldn't have been more than a few months old when John had done this. It was terrifyingly small and suddenly Sherlock could imagine the scene with crystal clear accuracy.

John, shaken, tired and haggard, painting in silence under Raz' watchful eye. The baby asleep in the mild night or watching with curiosity.

Had John intended to leave the message as it was or had he been unable to continue?

For once Sherlock didn't want to know the answer.

They didn't speak about it. When Sherlock came back in, John watched him in a way that told Sherlock John knew exactly where he had been.

John put Ava to bed and washed up while Sherlock stared at the television again, unseeing despite the sitcom that he usually hurled insults at.

And so what if, in bed that night, Sherlock felt a strange need to be oddly careful with John. To keep the night slow and quiet, hiding John away from the world. To press gentle, careful kisses to his skin.

He'd hoped that would be enough, that his guilt would assuage when he reassured himself that this time he would keep John safe from deception, that this time he wouldn't be the one to hurt him.

"You ok?" John asked, brushing a curl away from Sherlock's forehead as they lay next to each other afterwards.

"Yes." Sherlock stared up at the ceiling. "Thinking."

John remained silent and traced a lazy figure of eight over Sherlock's chest, as if he were a cat that needed petting and soothing.

Eventually the hand stopped moving as John tired.

"I'd do it again." Sherlock said into the long silence.

John's head, on the pillow next to his shoulder stiffened, and he raised it to look at Sherlock.

"Leave?" John asked, his voice almost steady.

Nodding Sherlock continued that list, "Lie, hurt you."

There was an age of silence before John dropped back down to his previous position. Without a word he seemed to resettle himself into the bed and against Sherlock, though every move was ebbed with tension.

"You would do it again, or you will do it again?" John asked eventually.

"I would do it again in a heartbeat given the other option I had that day." Sherlock tucked an arm behind his head, still staring resolutely at the ceiling.

"Sherlock-"

"I don't know."

He hated saying those words but until he could manage to define this "love" thing he honestly didn't know.

He didn't know if he could be that selfless, if he could give up what he had gained without hesitation.

John reached out a hand and slid it through the one of Sherlock's that was resting on his chest.

"Go to sleep," John said gently.

Sherlock closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

There was a long sigh in the aftermath, then John was moving them both, turning Sherlock and wrapping himself around his back.

"You want to ask what for." Sherlock told the opposite wall.

"Do you want to tell me?" John replied sounding utterly awake now.

Not really, but it seemed pointless to duck out of the conversation that he'd started.

"For being me," Sherlock told the wall. "I will hurt you John. I have hurt you."

There was a smoothing touch on his hip as John contemplated that. It was foolish to wait for a reply; after all, what could John say to refute it? Pointless debates about Moriarty's blame in all this was useless; it still ended in the same conclusion.

Sherlock had sought Moriarty out and played his game once upon a time. All that happened now would be a direct result of that, and to survive Sherlock would have to hurt John in many ways before the end.

"You are who you are," John's voice drifted out of the shadows. "Anything else wouldn't be the man I love and choose to be with."

Sherlock swallowed uncomfortably but reached down to pull John's hand from his hip and link it with his own.

"Moran sent me a warning."

"Is that what you've been working on?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded against the pillow, making John's lips brush his neck with the movement. "A body with a passing resemblance to me was washed up a few days ago."

It was impossible to tell what John was thinking. "Are you sure Moriarty had nothing to do with it?" John asked.

"No he-"

Sherlock sat straight up as blinding realisation hit. "Oh." he said eagerly, "Oh!"

"Oh?" John asked, sitting up in a much more slumberous manner.

"You are brilliant!" Sherlock reached over and pressed a fierce kiss to John's dazed lips, ignoring the confused look. "I'd forgotten just how useful you can be with that."

John flopped back down on the bed. "Cheers."

"Don't you see?" Sherlock launched himself out of the bed, throwing on his dressing gown.

"Clearly not," John huffed.

"He told us, he as good as told us!" Sherlock could feel his mind racing, blustering through the maudlin mood that had struck him earlier and blazing a path of inspiration.

John rolled over and buried his head in the pillow with a groan, muttering something under his breath.

"Get up," Sherlock yanked on John's arm eagerly, "I need to think."

"It's one in the morning-"

"You can never tell when inspiration will hit!" Sherlock bodily pulled John up and got a glare for his effort.

"Get up" he insisted, tearing out into the living room and putting the kettle on for John to make the tea. He was humming with ideas now, strategizing and discarding as needs be.

Moriarty and Moran. How many contacts had Moran brought to Moriarty, how much weight did he hold. Moran was respected by those he met, he had a fearsome reputation and a reliable track record.

Moriarty on the other hand was dangerous, a threat to all he touched and without mercy or morals.

There would be tension, Sherlock thought, pacing. They needed each other, may even respect each other for what they offered, but it didn't mean they liked each other, or that they even tolerated each other.

Tea was placed carefully on the table as John sat down, hair wild, t-shirt rumpled and yawing his way to his tea.

"I've been looking at it wrong," Sherlock announced looking down at John triumphantly. "I've been thinking that we're trapped."

John raised an eyebrow. "We are," he said firmly.

"No, don't you see? It's blindingly obvious-"

"Spare me the lecture and just tell me," John warned, wrapping his hands around his mug.

Sherlock sighed, "Moran on this side," he gestured with his left and, "Moriarty on this side, us in between."

John flickered his gaze to Sherlock's hands. "Right."

"They're apart."

John stared at him, "Right."

Sherlock let out a frustrated breath, "Listen and pay attention."

"I am." John shifted.

"Do you think Moran likes Moriarty?"

"I-" John narrowed his eyes, "No." he said eventually. "No, it would irritate him that Moriarty has others do his dirty work."

"Moran likely gave Moriarty most of his military contacts, possibly more than that. Moriarty gives him criminal advice, contacts, funding, a network of power. But Moran isn't a follower."

John sat back slowly, "You want to turn them against each other."

Sherlock smiled, "Yes."

John put his mug down, "How?"

"Moriarty wants me alive and Moran wants me dead."

John's jaw dropped, "No, absolutely-"

But Sherlock was already moving, kneeling in front of John and placing his palms on John's thighs. "You were the one who said it, John. You told me not to make you wait for the day they came for us."

"That's not exactly what I said."

"I paraphrased." Sherlock dismissed the issue. "I can do this John. I can play them against each other. Moriarty's games against Moran's practicality."

John looked ill. "Sherlock-"

"I can do it." Sherlock lifted his hand to cup John's face earnestly, "I swear to you. I can do this."

John just closed his eyes in response.