A/N

I have had the week from hell!

Sorry if this is rubbish - I needed to write or cry so this seemed more productive. And i'll probably cringe at how overly dramatic that sounds tomorrow!

Hope you enjoy! And thanks so much for the amount of reviews from the last chapter - you have no idea how much they helped me this week when I was able to sneak some emails in! I will reply to those i haven't done yet but I thought you'd all prefer the chapter first.

John could be dead.

With every breath he took that idea wouldn't leave him alone. Every inhale made him wonder if John still did the same; every exhale summoned forth the image of life leaving John's marvellous eyes.

All night he sat next to the phone, holding onto the one thing that he had left to protect, the one thing that he could do something about. Ava slept fitfully; so fitfully that he doubted she even realised that she had slept. It would have been better to have taken her upstairs…

But he couldn't do it. It wasn't the typical reluctance that he felt, but rather a traitorous beating terror that the moment she was out of his sight someone would strike. That if John wasn't safe in the flat then Ava certainly wasn't.

And she was so small. So fragile.

So easily lost.

The phone stayed silent.

Hours later, as dawn peeped through the curtains, the phone still hadn't buzzed. Every part of Sherlock wanted to keep the quiet, the stillness, the waiting because he had no idea what he would do if that phone rang.

It was if his entire life had narrowed down to the phone. Even the flat seemed to feel the weight of expectancy: the moment the phone rang it would be impossible to escape.

John would either be dead or alive. And, from the state of him, the way that Moran had suffered as he had bled out on the warehouse floor, Sherlock couldn't see how the news would be good.

But that bloody traitorous hope that could be blamed on the Watson family kept him watching the phone and praying it didn't go off.

Seven o'three.

Eight ten.

Eight forty-nine.

Nine eighteen.

John had survived more than twelve hours. It had to be a good sign.

Unless Mycroft had interfered.

Sherlock shook himself as the thought hit. His stomach plunged for a moment and the urge to vomit rose suddenly. In his arms, Ava stirred and snuggled closer into him.

John could be dead. Bloody Mycroft could have ruined the system.

What if he was?

Unsteady Sherlock carefully shifted Ava off of his lap and onto the floor, suddenly unable to breathe. The cloying terror was rising again.

He needed to focus.

He was useless like this; running away from information, hiding like a child. This was what John had done to him, snuck up under his defences, obliterated Sherlock's good sense, wrecked his self-sufficiency.

How was he meant to breathe without that stubborn man? How had he managed travelling around the world without John at his side?

How was he meant to go into their room without John? Or eat or sleep or work-

It was an unrealised habit that had him pause at the kettle. How often did he put it on in the middle of an argument just to make sure that John would finish off the tea making task and prove that everything was really fine.

Who would finish making the tea?

How dare John-

Sherlock didn't even finish his thought before he hurled the kettle at the wall. The plastic shattered against the paint work and the pieces clattered off to the side in a satisfying cacophony of noise.

How was he meant to fix this? He didn't know how to fix a kettle.

Or John.

Useless.

Drained Sherlock leaned against the counter, staring at the ruins of the kettle that were sticking to the congealed blood.

That needed to be cleaned. Ava-

The world sharpened suddenly and snapped into focus as he spotted the little girl watching him with huge worried eyes.

Finally, something he could do.

"Go...wash your face and do your teeth," Sherlock ordered, reaching back to John and Ava's typical routine.

Ava nodded and went, amazingly, without the usual battle and whining over cleaning her teeth.

In the stillness that followed Sherlock stared at the blood and the remains of the kettle, dimly acknowledging the significance. Slowly he knelt and plucked up a shard of plastic, noting the tackiness of the blood that stained the dull beige plastic faintly.

John had believed in him; despite the overwhelming odds and the vast logic, John had gone out and shown the world his faith with yellow paint.

Sherlock let out a breath.

John was still alive. It wasn't interference but John's sheer stubborn nature that had ensured the phone hadn't rung all night.

But if that was true then John was going to go ballistic at the state of the kettle.

God please let him live.

"I see you managed to sort out the important things," Mycroft drawled.

It took everything that Sherlock had not to start in surprise at the sound of the voice. He couldn't be bothered to deal with Mycroft's concern right now.

"Go away Mycroft," Sherlock said dully, unable to muster the usual contempt that accompanied his conversations with Mycroft.

But his brother seemed unable to leave well enough alone, and pointedly cleared his throat, "So I should leave the child to inspect your...score?"

Score?

Oh!

Sherlock swung his head around and caught sight of Ava, dangerously close to the cocaine.

How had he forgotten he'd left the drugs on the table? How could he have let her anywhere near…?

The sight of Ava so close to the substance shuddered disgust through him, and it was hard to even muster up a defensive sneer at Mycroft as his brother read those emotions upon his face.

"Come here," he said holding out the free hand that wasn't holding a piece of kettle.

Without hesitation Ava moved towards him, obviously confused but equally eager for the reassurance. It was impossible to just let her stand next to him; he needed to cup the back of her head and pull her close to him, keeping her from the world.

It still wasn't enough. Somehow he'd managed to call her over and the tips of her toes were almost touching John's blood.

He was failing already.

John had to be alive. He couldn't possibly manage this.

Pushing Ava's head into his hip to hide her view of the blood Sherlock scanned his brother. He'd been up all night; at the hospital and in that damned car of his if the faint stain on his cuff and the wrinkles in his suit were any judge. Mycroft would not have hidden from the knowledge the way Sherlock had and Mycroft didn't seem on edge. He had known Sherlock was in the flat with cocaine and hadn't interfered or sent a team up to relieve Sherlock of his goods.

John was alive.

John was stable.

Relief almost made him want to slide down to the floor again. His fingers curled fractionally tighter around Ava's head.

"Now you may leave," he said to Mycroft.

It wasn't hard to spot the way Mycroft relaxed a little, relieved that he wouldn't have to explain the situation to Sherlock and risk a sentimental conversation.

"Have you even been back to the hospital?" Mycroft taunted.

Back?

"I.." Sherlock's mind raced as Mycroft's eyes narrowed, "I'm watching Ava." He added, as if floundering for a reason while he tried to work out what Mycroft was trying to say.

Had Mycroft realised where Sherlock had been and sent up an alibi or had he merely made a mistake?

No. Mycroft didn't make mistakes. But he could see from the tilt of Mycroft's head that he hadn't been wholly sure where Sherlock had been.

Moran's body hadn't been found then. But the firming of Mycroft's lips screamed that his brother would be looking for it now.

"I have people that can do that, that can take her away so you can_"

Iron resolve clamped down.

No.

Ava wasn't leaving his hearing range.

"Leave." Sherlock growled, "Right now. Get into that car and go, right now."

"Don't be dramatic_"

"Dramatic?" What was Mycroft even thinking? John had been shot! "Dramatic?"

"Someone needs to watch her-"

"I am watching her." How idiotic was he?

"-and it is not your responsibility-" Mycroft continued on without a pause.

"Yes it is," Sherlock roared.

It was hard to tell who was more shocked by his outburst. Mycroft stared at him as if he'd announced he was squeamish. Part of Sherlock skittered at the idea, because if letting John in had been hard then letting Ava in would be-

And then there was that image, that terrible awful image of the little girl running up the street in her think nightgown looking like a fragile wisp that could slip from his fingers any second and be lost forever.

There was the dawning realisation that, just like with John, it was far too late to detach now.

Ava shifted under his hand, not just to look or question even though he could almost touch the curiosity radiating from her. No, she moved as if to give him comfort, the same way he had observed she sometimes did when John was beyond tired or upset.

"Sherlock-" Mycroft whispered looking stunned.

"She's mine, mine and John's. And in every way that matters, she's mine."

And, God, wasn't that terrifying.

It took only hours for his natural curiosity to start burning away again. And, by the afternoon, Ava was with Mrs Hudson and one of Mycroft's people as Sherlock made his way to the hospital.

How John had ever managed to work in one of these he would never know. If there was one substance Sherlock truly hated, it was bleach. It made everything the same; the smell was overpowering and it turned everything it touched into monotony.

Dull.

Mycroft had secured John a private room which was good, and one of his minions sat opposite the door eying him up in a way that Sherlock approved of.

Past the door was hell.

John was so still. The heart monitor beeped reassuringly into the silence of the room but Johns face remained smooth and placid; indicating the unnaturalness of his sleep.

Sherlock's feet sounded very loud in the room, despite the heart monitor. As soon as he was able to he let his fingers trace the covers that rested over John's feet, his calf, his thigh…

He paused at the stomach, seeing the lump that indicated the dressing and protection over the wound.

The blood, seeping through his hands, the warmth of it even as the rest of John faded and cooled…

With a shaking hand he reached for John's wrist, needing his own test to allay the fears that perhaps the heart monitor was faulty. But there it was; the pulse. Steady and strong. Just the feel of it under his fingers made his heart flutter in sheer relief.

Unwilling to let go of his evidence, Sherlock reached out and pulled the plastic chair close so he could sit and keep hold of John's wrist. As soon as he was sat he dropped his head to John's hand, as if in doing so he would be able to hear the blood flow, the pulse of life and the beating of his heart. As if he could lose himself in the smell of John's skin; the textures of his fingers and the strength of his tendons and muscles that denoted his surgeon's skill.

If he had died how long would it have taken for all of that to fade? If Sherlock had decided to leave, to stay away to piss John off and incite a fight then would he still be able to detect all that made John John in the body before him? Or would it have been to late even for that? Would he just be sitting with an empty shell and no evidence that once upon a time John had been everything.

Desperate for something, anything, Sherlock mouthed at John's hands, needing more, needing to taste and protect something. The second knuckle on his left hand was calloused and had a tiny scar from a slip up back when John had fist wielded a scalpel on a corpse when he'd been training. He pulled away fractionally and breathed, the warmth of his breath bouncing back from John's skin in a wholly unsatisfactory way.

"Come back to me," he whispered, almost no louder than his breath. "You have to come back."

He heart monitor beeped in steady reply.

A finger twitched.

Sherlock snapped his gaze to it, watching with narrowed eyes, assessing every single detectable evidence that John was about to wake up.

For a moment he wondered if it had been his own hope that had deceived his mind (God knew he was becoming less and less objective as the days went on when it came to John) but then the eyelids flickered and the breathing became less steady.

"John?"

The eyelids squeezed, as if John didn't want to wake up. The fingers in Sherlock's hand fluttered and John's breath hitched in his throat, likely from both pain and dawning consciousness. A rasping breath caught on John's dry oesophagus and Sherlock found himself half standing over John to see him push through the last of his slumber and back into the world.

"John?"

John swallowed as blue eyes struggled to open and he winced.

Looking around Sherlock grabbed at the jog on the table and filled the glass with a splash of water then gently placed it to John's chapped, dry lips.

John swallowed, winced and then properly opened his eyes.

"Huh," he muttered staring up at Sherlock as Sherlock pulled the glass away.

"What?"

John blinked at him and turned his head vaguely towards the monitor and then back to Sherlock.

"My hand's wet." He murmured in confusion.

Sherlock looked down at the wet patch where his mouth had been and then back up at John. "I was examining the flow of blood in your hand."

John's nose scrunched up in curiosity and for a moment all Sherlock could see was Ava. But then John seemed to just accept it as another one of Sherlock's oddities and let it go.

"What…" he shifted and then gasped in pain. "What happened?"

"You were shot," Sherlock said, glancing at the chart and suddenly wondering how much morphine John was on and how cognizant he actually was.

"Again?" John sounded utterly unimpressed. "That's not good."

Relieved laughter chuckled out of Sherlock. John was dazed, high and pained but he was magnificently alive and wonderfully…John.

"No," Sherlock agreed, pressing his forehead to John's. "No, it isn't."

John nuzzled his nose against Sherlock's cheek and his breath hitched again from the pain of the movement. His breathing was uneven and his forehead creased.

Sherlock closed his eyes, feeling something well up within him from it all.

"You ok?" John slurred.

Pulling back, Sherlock studied John. His gaze was fogged from the painkillers and his eyes were already fluttering shut.

Part of him insanely wanted to jolt John back to wakefulness but the rest of him wanted to curl up around the man and make sure no-one dared come through the door and disturb his rest.

John had woken up.

Pressing a fierce kiss to a now sleeping John's forehead, Sherlock sat back, still holding John's hand to wait for the next time he woke.

It was impossible to stay forever; if for no other reason than Ava. There was that odd tug of war; the battle between caring for the little girl and the wounded man, but once again he was utterly useless when it came to helping John.

Ava however he could manage. He knew how to call for a takeaway.

Lestrade was waiting for him in the flat.

A glance at the kitchen showed that Mycroft's minions had been at work again and there was only a faint stain where John's blood had been. Sherlock paused to stare at it, utterly ignoring Lestrade.

Until Mycroft cleared his throat.

"Do you have nothing better to do than laze around waiting for me?" Sherlock asked, dragging his gaze away and to his brother who had just climbed the stairs.

"I was consulting with Mr Finn." Mycroft said, clearly meaning the man who had been sat in Mrs Hudson's kitchen for most of the day posing as the gas man. "Besides, the inspector here has some interesting news."

"Really?" Sherlock asked doubtfully, throwing Lestrade a challenging look.

"Sebastian Moran's body was found three hours ago in an abandoned warehouse." Lestrade said, fixing Sherlock with a searching gaze.

Sherlock sneered a smile wolfishly, "What a pity," he said icily.

Lestrade brushed a hand over his mouth and seemed to steady himself, "Am I going to find anything on that crime scene that connects you to it?"

Sherlock stepped forward, "Your questioning technique leaves a lot to be desired inspector."

Lestrade licked his lips, "Do you have an alibi?"

Sherlock slid his gaze to Mycroft who nodded almost imperceptibly. "Yes." He said, "I was at the hospital and then buying cocaine."

Lestrade's eyes jumped open in panic and he stared in disbelief. "You fucking id-"

"It has been disposed of," Mycroft cut in smoothly. "Untouched."

"That reminds me, do I get a refund?" Sherlock asked coolly.

But Lestrade had turned away from him, "Wait, you're not buying that?" Lestrade asked Mycroft forcefully, "I'm not John; I know what he was like. You're seriously telling me that all this happened, Sherlock bought cocaine and didn't use it?"

"I am standing right here," Sherlock snarled.

"It would appear that anything with Watson DNA has a good effect on my brother." Mycroft replied, ignoring Sherlock.

Lestrade let out a disbelieving breath and leaned against the chair for a moment, shaking his head.

"Do you have an alibi I can use?" he asked, sounding exhausted.

"I can assure you," Sherlock hissed, "It is not necessary. If another consulting detective existed, they could not find any evidence linking me to Moran's death. There is nothing to find."

Lestrade studied him intently, a war of relief and disgust playing upon his features until he finally settled upon a sneered expression that looked wrong on his face.

"One day, you are gonna answer to the law Sherlock. You don't get to play god and have no consequences."

Sherlock stepped dangerously close, "Even if you somehow grew a backbone and decided to build a case, you would fail to ever prosecute me." Sherlock promised. "And do not even think to try and guilt me into feeling remorse. It will not happen."

"You can't go around killing-"

"He shot John." Sherlock roared. "Would you have had me wait for him to return to finish off my entire family too?"

Lestrade suddenly lost it. "Don't even pretend that's why you did it." He shouted back. "You made a mistake and you couldn't bear the idea of it walking around and mocking you. You wanted revenge."

Sherlock hit him.

Hard.

Twice.

Then yanked him close as Mycroft sighed in the corner.

"I do not care if you make it your lifelong mission to see me pay for my crime. I will not snivel and apologise for keeping them safe. Be thankful I was dazed enough to just shoot him. I could have made it last days."

He threw Lestrade away from him with a violent thrust.

"Get out." He said, walking away. "You will not upset Ava."

Ava, as it turned out, was already upset.

"A man on the news was shot and died," she sobbed. "I don't want Daddy to die."

How was it that him yelling the exact same thing at her had less of an effect than a presenter reading out a fact calmly on the six o clock news?

"He's fine," he said gently, patting her on the head awkwardly as she sniffed against his shirt. "He just needs…a rest."

Ava pulled back to stare at him miserably, "He can rest here," she sulked with petulant tears in her voice, "I'll help you look after him."

"He needs a doctor," Sherlock grounded out, hating the fact too.

"Then you should have got shot."

Sherlock's heart almost stopped.

"-because Daddy's a doctor and he could have looked after you here, then no-one would be at the hospital."

A strange relief flooded him that she hadn't meant the words the way they had sounded and he pulled her in close again.

"Maybe next time," he said soothingly.

But Ava pulled back again, the disappearing tears welling again at an alarming speed.

"You can't get shot," she whimpered, her voice quivering with tears.

Lost as to how her mind was able to jump back and forth, Sherlock gaped at her.

"I don't want you to get shot." Ava sobbed, her voice cracking almost into incoherence.

Gathering her back up again Sherlock sighed at the wall.

This was going to be a very long evening.