John endured Mrs. Hudson's fussing with good humour, letting her fluff his pillows unnecessarily and tuck the afghan more securely around him. Sherlock watched with mostly hidden disapproval – because he'd just done the same thing ten minutes ago.

"I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, I really am. They just knocked me around a little," John insisted, downplaying the injuries for her. As a doctor, he wasn't really worried since they were all bruises, not breaks. He ached everywhere – although the painkillers had taken the edge off – but he wasn't in any real danger.

"Oh, you boys," she sighed, planting a motherly kiss on his forehead. "No one should think that being knocked around isn't a bad thing. Mrs. Turner's married ones never get into this kind of trouble."

John repressed a smile at Sherlock's snort.

"That's because they are boring and we are not," he said coolly.

"They're perfectly lovely," Mrs. Hudson replied primly and Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Lovely," he muttered. "Forgive me, Mrs. Hudson, but I'd rather be remarkable than lovely."

"You can be both," John commented to which Sherlock only raised his eyebrows in reply.

"I'll make you some soup, John. Goodness knows what Sherlock would mix in if he were cooking."

"I'm a perfectly capable cook," Sherlock protested but, John noted, didn't make any move to get up from his work and stop her. He smiled slightly, suppressing a wince as he shifted on the couch to get more comfortable. Sherlock's sharp gaze shot back to him, fixing on him firmly until John relaxed, giving him a slight nod. There was a reproving look on his husband's features for a brief moment as Mrs. Hudson vanished into their kitchen.

He was presented with a steaming bowl of chicken soup and a slice of buttered bread a few minutes later. John ate slowly, letting Mrs. Hudson hover over him while he did so, and chatted with her about her niece's upcoming arrival and their Boxing Day travel plans to Buckinghamshire.

"I'm glad you're going," she said, shooting Sherlock a look over her shoulder. "Your poor father. No one should be alone at Christmas."

"Mycroft will be there Christmas day," Sherlock murmured, focused on whatever experiment he was working on.

"In the end, family's all we have," Mrs. Hudson insisted.

John finished his soup hurriedly, handing the bowl and plate back to her.

"I need a nap," he said to forestall any more discussion about family. She might have missed the tension that slid along the line of Sherlock's muscles where his neck met his shoulders, but John didn't. He'd lived too many months seeing it, having learned to watch for it.

"Of course, dear," she said, leaning down to kiss his forehead again. "Sherlock, make sure he's able to sleep. No explosions."

"No more than necessary," Sherlock replied with a twitch of his lips and Mrs. Hudson sighed, shaking her head. When she was gone, John began a silent countdown in his head, reaching twenty-two before Sherlock got up, shut the door, then fluffed up John's pillow and adjusted the blanket.

"You should sleep," Sherlock said. "I know a doctor who regards it as an extremely effective treatment. For everything."

John chuckled.

"You should listen to him. He's right more often than you think."

Sherlock huffed and bent down, brushing his lips over John's in a light kiss. John returned it, eyes dropping shut.

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock whispered, breath warm against John's skin. John smiled again, managing a murmured assent before he let himself drift away.

He awoke feeling warm and almost comfortable, the pain in his ribs and head dulled to a background ache. John let himself float peacefully in a half awake haze, lulled by the faint sound of the traffic outside and the smell of pine from the Christmas tree. He had some vague memory of Mrs. Hudson having returned and arguing with Sherlock about calling the police – although he hoped that was a dream.

When he finally opened his eyes, he felt himself being watched and turned his head just enough to see Sherlock sat in his chair, gazing at him steadily from behind steepled fingers. This wasn't the detective lost in thought or his husband evaluating his rest but something deeper.

"Everything okay?" John asked, voice still laced with sleep.

"There's been a murder."

"Oh," John said, feeling a mild flash of surprise. "You didn't have to wait for me to wake up if Lestrade called–"

"No, I haven't been consulted," Sherlock replied. John sat up carefully, wincing and hissing as he did so. A small table had been moved next to the sofa and Sherlock had left him a glass of water and some painkillers, which John downed gratefully.

He froze in the act of putting the glass aside, meeting Sherlock's gaze again. The detective shook his head but John didn't trust the immediate flash of relief.

"As far as I know, John Riley is fine. Apparently you managed to convince his former associates that he's still unconscious. There's been no news of an attempt on someone's life in a hospital at any rate."

"Okay," John said carefully, allowing himself to feel some reassurance. He wasn't sure what he thought about this – obviously it was a good thing that Riley's attackers hadn't found him again, but he wasn't sure he wanted to be spending the emotion on a terrorist, former or not. "Then what is it?"

"It would be best to show you," Sherlock replied. He unfolded from John's chair in a smooth movement and settled into the space on the sofa the doctor cleared for him, laptop propped on his knees. After a brief moment of typing, the computer was passed to John, who was greeted with a headline announcing the discovery of a murdered man's body at a construction site.

He read the story carefully – most of it was still speculation with a couple of hard facts from Lestrade's team. There were no pictures yet of the victim and he remained unidentified, but the photographs of the construction site turned crime scene were uncomfortably familiar. The angle was different – these were mostly taken from the street, the press obviously not having access to the scene itself – but some of the buildings in the background were the same.

A glance at Sherlock confirmed it.

"Could be a coincidence," John said, not believing it.

"Mycroft doesn't deal in coincidences," his husband replied. John nodded, a numb cold settling into his stomach.

"We don't know that the victim is the same man in the CCTV footage," he pointed out reasonably. Sherlock nodded but his expression didn't change.

"We don't know yet," he agreed. "Are you feeling well enough for a little light burglary?"

"This is insane," John hissed, to which Sherlock responded with a faint smile and a glimpse of a police badge – probably stolen from Lestrade – that was immediately returned to his coat pocket. The doctor sighed, trying to hunch his shoulders against the rain without actually doing anything so stupid as bending or tensing. He was moving slowly so as not to aggravate his ribs or let the concussion get the better of him. Sherlock had even slowed his own normally rapid pace to accommodate, which the doctor would have appreciated a lot more if he weren't standing in the rain behind a possibly dead man's house.

"Yes and what will we say if the real police show up?" he asked, wincing against a drop of rain that trickled down his spine with unerring accuracy.

"I think I can talk my way out of any problems that might arise from patrol officers being sent round," Sherlock replied dryly, checking a window expertly, giving a triumphant hiss when it eased open reluctantly under his grasp. "If not, Lestrade will take care of it."

"He'll be a bit busy today, I bet," John shot back. Sherlock ignored him, slithering through the window with all the grace of a cat in a six-foot-two frame.

"Stay there," the detective ordered. "I'll open the door for you."

"You'd better," John warned. His only answer was a retreating view of Sherlock but a minute later the door into the garden was eased open. John hurried to it as fast as his protesting body would allow, stepping gratefully into the dryness. He closed his eyes instinctively when he felt something on his face, breath catching and making his ribs ache.

"It's a towel," Sherlock said with a hint of impatience. John opened his eyes as it was pulled away, then suffered his husband checking the stitching on his skull, patting it dry. This probably counted as medical care from Sherlock. John smiled slightly. He'd take what he could get.

"It's colder than it should be," John commented, speaking in a whisper. "Heat's not been on for a while."

"Several weeks, I should imagine," Sherlock commented, leading John towards the front of the house. "Or it's been turned on for brief periods of time. Someone's been taking care of this place."

"Post on the table," John said. There were two small piles of it, organized into regular and junk. "Wouldn't someone know if whoever lived here was missing then? Unless he was meant to be on holiday."

"Or they were told he was on holiday," Sherlock replied. "Or, perhaps, the person who murdered him was the one watching over his house to make it appear someone was home."

"But no one reported seeing John Riley here!"

Sherlock looked down at him, grey eyes cool with a sharp glint.

"You assume I meant Riley," he commented and John opened his mouth to retort, finding his voice lost – he had immediately assumed that. "It could easily be someone else – there's no reason for your friend to have been involved, although his presence here on the footage Mycroft sent is telling. But it's easy enough to fake an email or a text message to a neighbour."

John sighed, then wished he hadn't when his ribs protested.

"Sit down," Sherlock ordered.

"And do what?" John asked. "Just sit here while you snoop around a maybe murdered man's house?"

"Yes," the detective said vaguely.

"What do you expect to find?" John asked as he made his way into the living room, shoes leaving damp impressions on the scuffed hardwood. "A big sign that says 'I'm a member of RIRA'?"

"It doesn't have to be big," Sherlock said with a twitch of his lips and John rolled his eyes. "If you want to make yourself useful, look around this room. But if you feel dizzy at all, sit down."

"Yes, doctor," John replied, earning a sharp glare.

"And call if you need me," Sherlock replied.

"I will," John promised – he meant it, but in part just to satisfy the detective. Sherlock was beginning to have that look about him that indicated he'd be serious about enforcing rest. Usually when John was directed to spend time in bed it was for very different reasons, but Sherlock wasn't above getting him back for all the rest John had imposed on him when he'd had his own concussions two years ago.

And really, he knew this was ill advised. He should be lying down, if not sleeping.

He'd never been very good at following medical advice. Even his own.

He searched the living room as methodically as he could but there wasn't much to do. In sharp contrast to Baker Street, where books were crammed onto every available surface, there was only one bookshelf, filled with a random assortment. John tried to see patterns in the dust that had settled over everything, to see if specific books were less coated, indicating that they'd been used more. The few that were contained nothing of interest but were dog-eared, so probably just reread. He opened a few more at random and found nothing, then poked through the DVD collection and checked under all the cushions, mindful not to overexert himself. The sounds of Sherlock moving around the rest of the house were reassuring.

John eventually settled onto the couch, wishing he'd thought to bring some painkillers. To distract himself, he tried to observe the room more closely, looking for any inconsistencies, but either there was nothing out of place here or he wasn't seeing it. He was sidetracked from his attempts when Sherlock came back in, flourishing a handful of photographs.

"Someone's been through here already," the detective announced. "Laptop gone, no sign of any wallets or keys or phones. There was a desktop in the office but the tower was removed – it had been under the desk, nearly out of sight, so whoever was sorting the post wouldn't have noticed, and there are no plants in the office, so no reason for her to go in there." John raised his eyebrows but didn't ask how Sherlock knew the minder was a woman. Probably some subtle lingering hint of perfume or the fading impression of a shoe on a rug somewhere.

"Our mystery inhabitant did know John Riley, however."

"What?"

Sherlock passed him the photographs. There were three, each taken from a distance, probably on a phone, he thought, because they weren't zoomed in.

"But Riley came here!" John protested. "If the man who lived here was following him, had recognized him– why would he put himself in danger like that?"

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow.

"Who said he was?" John opened his mouth, but a raised hand forestalled him. "The disguise might not have been to fool the occupant of this house, but to fool whomever else might be watching. They may have been intending to meet."

"But then why take these pictures?" John asked.

"And why hide them so effectively that whoever took the computers didn't find them?" Sherlock added.

"Could you send the fingerprints to Dublin?" Donovan asked.

"I don't need to," Morgan replied, arms crossed, gaze still intent on the face of the dead man stretched out on the morgue slab between them. "I know who he is."

She was silent for a long moment before sighing and meeting the DI's gaze.

"Neil Hayes. He's a RIRA member– well former member, now."

"Riley knew him?" Donovan demanded.

"Oh yes."

"His fingerprints were left at the Gossard Gallery twelve years ago."

"I'm not surprised," Morgan admitted. "He was in the same cell as Riley. When Riley came over to our side, we wanted to bring Hayes in for questioning about Sergeant Healy's murder. Never could though."

"Why not?"

Morgan fixed Donovan with a dark glare.

"Because he vanished shortly after Sergeant Healy was killed and we had no information on his whereabouts. Not even John Riley knew where he'd gone."