Sorry again for the long delay. Not only am I now sort of in charge of a class (the class teacher is off sick for a few weeks) but uni work is due in tomorrow at midnight.

So obviously I now have to update the fic! God forbid I actually do the silly essays early!

And, back to the fic, this is very bitty. I struggled no end writing this because I need to get certain information in but I really don't think I'd be updating for months if I tried to detail this stage of Sherlock's whole plot with Moran. So it's snippets i'm afraid.

Enjoy!

10th February

"You want to what?" Lestrade shouted, his eyes wide with disbelief. Gaping he turned to look at John who was sat quietly in the chair by the door. "Is he havin' me on?"

John just shook his head looking rather long suffering in Sherlock's opinion. "Believe me, I have been through this with him all week." He shifted in his chair, "And you still haven't heard the best part."

Lestrade huffed in a breath and glared at Sherlock. "There's more?"

Sherlock turned slightly in John's direction in warning before refocusing on Lestrade. "Irrelevant to you." He said shortly. "I fail to see your problem with this; you will still get a conviction."

The chair creaked as Lestrade leaned back, "You want me to sit on evidence?" he asked looking unhappy at the idea. "So you can set puzzles for Moriarty?"

"Technically you don't even have to do that. You simply have to restrain yourself from asking for help." Sherlock allowed himself a dramatic pause, "Which I realise will be hard for you."

Lestrade exchanged an aggrieved look with John. "Why not just hand over the evidence for Roberts' arrest if you're trying to piss Moriarty off?"

"Oh how simple your mind is," Sherlock sighed, "I am attempting to play Moran and Moriarty against each other, therefore I need to keep Moriarty's attention." Sherlock smiled, "To give Moriarty a puzzle I need to give him something to lose. Business contacts may be the only thing he will show some vague concern for."

"And this helps how?"

It was so painful to talk to the Inspector at times.

"He's making Moriarty gamble with business assets which will annoy Moran." John explained with some annoyance. A quick glance at the doctor showed John was rubbing at his forehead with his hand.

Lestrade twisted his gaze between Sherlock and John, mouth gaping like the goldfish Ava had tried to persuade them to "adopt" from the street stall at the weekend.

"Even you couldn't fail to understand that rather obvious explanation." Sherlock huffed as Lestrade seemed no closer to formulating a response.

"You're mad," Lestrade breathed, "Your bloody insane. Does your brother know about this?"

Sherlock couldn't help but see that rather smug way that John leaned back in his chair and paced to get him out of his eye-line. "Yes." He replied sullenly.

"And he's agreed to this?" Lestrade asked sounding fiercely doubtful. "I can't bloody believe you've agreed to this." Lestrade added at John.

A scathing remark leapt to Sherlock's lips but John was there before it could leave.

"It's a case of damned if we do and damned if we don't." John sounded exhausted, as if he'd been chasing the thoughts around his head for the past few days. The tone was enough to allow that slither of doubt to creep and grow.

But Sherlock clamped it down fiercely.

He needed to give this more thought.

14th February

John looked distinctly uncomfortable as he sat in the chair and glanced around for the umpteenth time. In fact his shoulders hadn't relaxed since they'd entered the pretentious restaurant.

"Relax," Sherlock murmured as he sipped the wine. "You're destroying the illusion."

John fiddled with the menu. "No-one is going to buy this."

"Not if you keep looking as if I've dragged you here rather than the other way around," Sherlock muttered, not needed to feign disinterest at the setting. There was barely a challenging person in the place if he discounted John. All the patrons were desperate to be seen at the fancy restaurant; some having affairs and most showing off in some way.

It was all exceedingly dull.

In fact John was the only thing making it somewhat interesting which was an annoyance in itself because John was meant to be acting like the contented partner, oblivious to Sherlock's boredom.

John let out a long breath, "Couldn't we have just gone to Angelo's?"

"It wouldn't have had the same effect." Sherlock flickered his gaze towards the specials board. "Don't order the pork dish," he advised.

John glanced up at him and then at the board. "I assume it's better that I don't ask."

"Probably." Sherlock replaced the menu carefully and was then lost for an interesting subject to stare at.

"So…how far are we taking this?" John asked, a finger fiddling nervously with the shirt button on his wrist.

Sherlock shrugged, pained as he was to do it.

John barely supressed the amused smirk that threatened to cross his face, "Wow, that's very dedicated for you."

"You need to improve your acting skills, "Sherlock glared at the fork that lay neatly on the table. "You are lucky we aren't being listened to."

"Give me some credit," John muttered. "If we were being listened to, I would act accordingly."

"I doubt it." Sherlock muttered and then resisted the fond smile as John sent him an entirely feigned look of hurt and worry.

"You're sure they can't read lips?" john asked after a moment.

"We are at the wrong angle for them to attempt it with any degree of accuracy." Sherlock assured John, pleased that his partner resisted the urge to glance at the two that had followed them the moment they'd left the flat. "Are you certain you can manage this?" he asked after a moment.

"Not really," John shifted in exaggerated nervousness. "But, as you said, it's the only possible deception we can try."

It was. It was also infuriatingly insulting to John and their relationship but it was also their best chance. They needed a reason to explain Sherlock suddenly engaging Moriarty in the manner he was planning and this had been the only reasonable explanation that Moriarty would not only accept but take great delight in.

Still, it grated on Sherlock's nerves, and he could just imagine Moriarty's crowing reaction when should he buy their act.

It was going to take a lot of effort to do this convincingly.

"Is this not how you imagined our first Valentines?" Sherlock asked, watching the window in the mirror.

"No," John said bluntly. "I hate bloody Valentine's day," he added quietly.

Damn the man for being interesting when Sherlock was meant to be looking bored to tears. "Why?"

"Have you dated many women during February?" John asked.

"No."

"You should. It's an experience." John took a sip of wine and then frowned, "Though not now," he added, suddenly realising how his words had sounded. "No matter how new the relationship you're always expected to suddenly fake undying devotion for a whole day and stand at Sainsbury's trying to work out which box of chocolates is the best suited and which flowers will work well and which restaurant…" John broke off with an annoyed wrinkle of his nose. "I was looking forward to…" he smiled looking pained suddenly, "Not faking it."

Slightly unsteady Sherlock glared at John. "I do not do flowers and chocolate."

"Poisons and ice cream then," John offered.

"And you'd feel no temptation to mix the two together?" Sherlock asked after a beat.

"After tonight I do."

"What would we have done?" Sherlock asked. "Were we not trying to convince Moriarty that I'm bored enough to need a distraction."

"Honestly?" John asked. "I have no idea. Just something that was us. Go to a crime scene and not have to rush back for Ava or just argue over whether you should play the violin over the top of CSI."

"It's an idiotic show." Sherlock sulked.

"Still better than this," John straightened up, clearly spotting a waiter making his way towards their table. "Especially as you're probably going to order something ridiculously overpriced and boring."

The man was infuriatingly wonderful at the most inopportune moments. Moments like when Sherlock was trying to look uncomfortable and bored. As John smiled at the waiter with a polite air and a fake laugh Sherlock couldn't help but add another reason to the quickly growing list of why he hated Moran.

And tried to think of a suitable and acceptable way to make it up to John next year.

16th February

Strangely, as he approached the flat, the light was still on. A quick glance confirmed that it was indeed twenty to four in the morning which made the whole thing rather curious indeed, especially as John had left Sherlock to set the final puzzle piece for Moriarty in favour of getting back to Ava.

The minute he opened the door he heard the reason for the light. There was a rather violent, hacking couch from someone far too little to cope with that easily.

Ava was ill.

There was an irrational twisting in his gut that made Sherlock want to back out of the door again and disappear back to the game he had set Moriarty. There would be nothing he could do to fix this, nothing he could do to help. It was John's territory; healing and fixing, not Sherlock's.

But Mycroft had seen him back (the camera's had all turned fractionally as he walked as if to ward of a stray bullet that might be aimed at Sherlock) and the idea of giving Mycroft that kind of ammunition was even more distasteful.

Inside the flat, John was stood in the middle of the two windows (good, safe) and was rocking Ava as he held her in his arms. Her head was pillowed against his shoulder and her fists clenched in his shirt. It would have been almost…sweet…had it not been for the deep couch that seemed to be spewing out of Ava and making her little body shudder against John's.

"She's unwell?" Sherlock had no idea why he phrased it as a question. It was entirely obvious that she was sick.

But John, rather than jump at the chance to point out Sherlock's ridiculous error, just nodded, looking exhausted himself. Sherlock watched as John shifted Ava a little and looked him over carefully.

"You ok?" John asked eventually, still rocking Ava gently with smooth, soothing motions.

Sherlock nodded distractedly noting the same clothes that John had been wearing yesterday. "She's been like this for hours."

"It's easing off." John pulled his head back a little to study Ava's face before brushing his lips against her forehead. "You should go to bed." He offered.

John had been sent back to get some rest. John was meant to be in bed now. Sherlock frowned, as Ava's sleepy eyes cracked open slowly and she stared at him without any of her usual spark.

Then another cough started and he could see them both wince from the force of it. John tried to soothe but it didn't seem to be doing much good.

"Surely there is a cure." Sherlock snapped.

It was a clear sign of how tired John was that he glared furiously at Sherlock. "She's been given medication, cold drinks and even ice cream to soothe her throat. There's only so much I can give her before I start making her worse, unless you, in your great wisdom as a university drop out would like to make a suggestion."

Amused Sherlock stepped forward, "That was almost cutting," he said reaching for Ava. But John resisted, eyeing him suspiciously.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock muttered still holding out his arms.

For a moment it looked like John was about to relent, but then he shook his head, "I'll hear her anyway. There's no way I'll sleep through her coughing."

Turning on his heel Sherlock marched into the kitchen, ignoring John's quiet sigh. The bottom cupboard had been the last place…

Retrieving the small pieces, Sherlock returned to John and held out the palm of his hand, the ear plugs resting quietly.

"Try," Sherlock suggested.

"You need to sleep as well," John yawned even as he spoke.

"I slept last night." Sherlock pointed out.

John closed his eyes and then snorted, "Fine." He took a deep breath and held Ava out to Sherlock. "I'm not arguing with you."

Sherlock bent a little to accept Ava and frowned at the heat that was coming off of her. "She has a fever?"

John shook his head, "It's not bad. She's worked herself up over the coughing."

Another coughing fit started, as if on cue. John froze as he turned towards the bedroom and Sherlock could see the indecision on his face.

"Sleep." He ordered.

"If you need me-"

Rolling his eyes Sherlock glared at the ceiling, "It's a cold John, not the bubonic plague. I will manage."

John moved a little closer towards the kitchen, "And you aren't just going to dump her upstairs the moment I get into the room?"

Hurt flashed before Sherlock could register it. The idea of leaving Ava upstairs on her own as she grew more and more exhausted and worked up over the coughing seemed…

Both cruel and logical.

After all, there was nothing they could do for her but wait the cough out and pass the time until the medication took effect. But, just like previous times, Sherlock found both his mind and body refused to put the little girl down.

Wordlessly he just shook his head and watched John soften.

"Sorry, I'm-"

"Tired." Sherlock finished for him. "Which is why you need to sleep." Really, it was hardly a difficult logical leap to make, even for John.

Ava finally fell asleep an hour later, the coughing finally subsiding enough for her to get some rest. Sherlock sat on the sofa, Ava curled up on his lap with her head on his chest as she seemed to find it easier to sleep like that rather than horizontal.

Which was how John found them when he appeared at twenty past eight the following morning.

"Did you sleep?" John asked handing Sherlock a cup of tea carefully.

"I hadn't planned on doing so anyway." Sherlock took a sip before placing it on the side and then retrieving his phone. "I had things to set up."

"You're starting it today?" John asked, sounding nervous.

"I started it last night." Sherlock replied easily. "I am continuing to set up the next stages."

"Last night?"

Danger.

There was that tone; that tone of voice that Sherlock was learning to heed. The tone that implied John was having a hard time deciding how best to throttle him and was trying to sit calmly to decide on a method.

"I would have told you, but we had other issues."

Looking almost apoplectic, though obviously mindful of Ava, John's fingers turned white as he gripped the mug.

The phone that he was currently texting on started to go off and Sherlock raised his eyes to John's after reading the number on the screen.

They sat, staring at each other for a moment before Sherlock carefully pressed to answer the call and raised the phone to his ear.

"This is a pleasant surprise," Moriarty greeted him. "I don't think it's my birthday."

It was irritating how decidedly off balance he felt with John still glaring at him and Ava in his lap while Jim Moriarty talked in his ear. "I do hope you aren't phoning for clues. Not this early on."

"No, no. I'm looking forward to it. But it is most unlike you to set the puzzles. Does your pet approve?"

Sherlock met John's eyes. "John agrees with anything that gets you out of our lives."

Moriarty laughed, "You're bored," he singsonged. "Playing happy families doesn't suit you Sherlock. It's dull."

Sherlock remained silent, unwilling to confirm or deny. But his breath hitched with the needed to say something in return-

"How much longer do you think you can last?" Moriarty continued on. "Before the monotonous tedium drives you mad?"

Sherlock searched John's eyes. "Tick tock Jim." He said and hung up the call.

They sat in silence for a long minute.

"He bought it?" John asked eventually. "That you're bored with me and Ava?"

Sherlock nodded ad tucked Ava's head under his chin. "It was almost pathetic." He muttered with some disappointment.

John rolled his hand behind his neck, "Is that the first contact you've had with him since Christmas?"

Sherlock nodded and then dawning realisation hit. "I didn't contact him last night, merely set everything in motion for this morning."

Visibly relaxing John nodded and then stood, clearly intending to shower. Reaching out carefully, so as not to jostle Ava, Sherlock caught his hand.

"Despite the ruse that we have to play, I promise you. Full partners."

John nodded, "I get it, I do. I get that playing it this way gives us the only advantage we can get but-"

"I know." Sherlock squeezed John's hand carefully. "I know."

Moran's anger was felt the two days later when the wall behind Sherlock exploded in brick dust and shards of glass and paint strips from the bullet that he narrowly dodged on his way back from a crime scene.

Sherlock ducked back into an alley, a few quick, calm turns kept him out of sight and allowed him to lose his assailant, whichever hired hand it had been.

Leaning against the bank wall, Sherlock took a deep breath. It hadn't been Moran that had fired; he'd be dead if it had been. A quick check of his phone showed that it was after half past three and chances were that John would arrive back at the flat with Ava before Sherlock could get in and tend to the scrape on his neck from the bullet.

John didn't need to know how close it had been.

Mrs Hudson's bathroom would do. At least there was some use to her dating Mr Ford from 190.

26th February

John was lazing in the chair watching television when Sherlock walked in after midnight. God knew why the man insisted on watching such dull television but he seemed to have developed a thing for it recently.

There was a long pause between them as Sherlock watched John's eyes dart down to the bloody arm of the suit jacket and then observed the myriad of expressions that tugged John's lips into a firm, unhappy line.

"Sit at the table," John said after a long minute, in which Sherlock had seen anger, sorrow, guilt, frustration, worry, resignation and fear pass over John's features.

He disliked stirring those emotions up in John. In a rare show of obedience, Sherlock made his way to the table and sat, gently easing off his jacket and shirt as John passed him to fetch the medical bag.

"A knife?" John asked, sounding far too nonchalant to be believed as he sat down and manoeuvred the lamp he had brought over onto the long gash on Sherlock's arm. "That makes a change."

"One of Roberts' nephews didn't take kindly to being arrested." Sherlock muttered as he looked down, trying to work out what John saw when he looked at the wound. "Luckily he was even clumsier with a knife than with his cocaine deals."

John looked up sharply.

"I have will power," Sherlock dismissed with a huff. "Must you flinch every time I mention a drug?"

John cleaned the wound with a disinfectant that stung as it touched Sherlock. "So you've started to arrest people?"

Sherlock nodded, "Moriarty didn't work out the clues quick enough."

Swallowing, John's hands remained precisely steady as they worked. "He'll be furious."

"No. He'll be itching to prove himself again. He'll gamble with more next time. Roberts is almost exhausted."

"You'll move onto the assassins now?" John asked.

Sherlock nodded, "Mixing up the codes and so forth." He watched as John started to stitch the widest part of the wound with neat links that looked like railway tracks. "You're angry."

It annoyed Sherlock that John didn't move his gaze from Sherlock's arm. "This is the fourth time I've had to do this in a week." John said tightly, "And that doesn't include the injuries you treated yourself."

"It's working-"

John pulled his hands away, as if unable to trust his reactions. "Barely," John hissed, slamming the kit shut. "Moran is not afraid of Moriarty and if you're arresting now and going after the assassins you know it's only going to get worse." He leaned forwards again, quick, deft movements finishing off his work.

"Why is it you only have faith in me when I tell you not to." Sherlock studied the neat stitching before raising his eyes to John. "You refused to believe I was a fraud when everyone we met was jumping over each other to tell you. I have told you before; I know what I'm doing."

John seemed to rest all of his weight on the kit for a moment. "You can't outthink a bullet Sherlock."

"If he wanted me dead I would be dead." Sherlock replied balling up the bloody shirt.

Scrapping hand over his mouth, John raised his other hand pointedly. "They're warning shots. Do you have any idea how easy it would be for him to-"

Glaring in disbelief Sherlock tilted his chin. "Yes, I had realised."

The words seemed to pull John back from the edge of temper and back firmly to the area of worry. "I hate this," he whispered and stood, walking to put the medical kit away.

Then he paused.

"This isn't deliberate? Is it?" John asked in a rough voice. "The injuries, the close calls. This isn't part of your plan?"

"What possible plan would involve my getting injured?" Sherlock asked quirking a brow at John.

Slowly John nodded and looked away, but not before Sherlock saw the hesitation in his eyes.

"I promise you John. It is not part of my brilliant plan to be shot at every day."

After a quick search for who knew what (Sherlock had been sure he'd removed every tell he'd ever had in his early twenties) John seemed to see the truth in his statement and relaxed a little and Sherlock felt something in him uncoil in relief.

After all it was the truth.

Being shot at was the far less brilliant plan B.

AN - The plan will be a lot more obvious in the next chapter! All aspects of it!