I have to thank my friend Archie for being the Sam to my Frodo in all writing things, for always having a word to cheer me up and for coming along with me on this.

If you'd like to chat about this plot, or about of the show, come talk to me on tumblr: sureaintmebabe . tumblr

I really love to ramble about billions of theories, and it would be my pleasure.

See the end of the chapter for more notes.

CHAPTER 3

John held himself straight in the back of the cab. The driver did everything he could to earn the additional fee John had promised to pay if he made there in less than half an hour. John's hands were perfectly steady, as they always were when dealing with all things Sherlock.

Sherlock who was not answering his phone. Of course he wasn't, because he was Sherlock Holmes, the indestructible genius who didn't need anyone.

John swore under his breath and looked out of the window. Sherlock had dismantled Moriarty's web all over the world by himself, and maybe he thought he didn't need John by his side, but John would be damned if Sherlock would get rid of him that easily in London.

To say that John had been hurt when he discovered he had been deliberately left behind before was an understatement. Even now, running off to follow Sherlock's trail, John asked himself what good that would do. Greg seemed to think that John would know how to find Sherlock, that he would have a better insight of how Sherlock's mind worked. Maybe, John thought. Maybe that was right, but it was hard to believe it after being played for two years.

Maybe if John had permitted himself to look for clues then, he could have had figured it out. But that would have cost him the last bit of sanity he still had.

John sighed and rubbed his face, trying to erase the complete exhaustion he felt lurking in. He tried to call Sherlock again, and again all that he heard was the recording of Sherlock's posh voice.

"You've reached Sherlock Holmes, Consulting detective. Leave a message and don't be boring, or I shall delete it."

Insufferable poncy twat. John smiled despite himself. He remembered the time when Sherlock's voice mail consisted of the two sentences: 'You've reached Sherlock Holmes. If you're going to be boring, call John Watson instead.' That had left John in charge of the incoming cases for quite some time, and by the end of it, he was almost siding with Sherlock on the whole 'please, don't be boring' mantra. Of course, Sherlock hadn't bothered to change the message back for six whole months.

Good old times.

Not that old. Undeniably good, John thought.

The cabbie managed to get John there in thirty-five minutes, but John decided he deserved the tip anyway. Getting out of the car, John remembered that this was where everything had begun. Not the first meeting, but the first time he had seen Sherlock in his element being majestic, dramatic, a bit ridiculous, but charming in a way only Sherlock Holmes could behave in a crime scene. After that Mycroft couldn't have kept John away from 221B, even if that had been his motivation for the first kidnapping.

John looked around. The streets were mostly empty, and a dead silence engulfed everything. It was better that way; Sherlock wasn't the only one used to moving silently. Greg had sent the number of a building that apparently worked as the general headquarters of the cartel to which the man Sherlock had gone to confront belonged. It was particularly distinct from the rest of the houses in that street, it seemed less homely somehow and more business like. John supposed that Sherlock would have noticed right away that something was amiss.

Or maybe he had known something was amiss right from the beginning. Probably. He had probably run off to face a whole cartel by himself, only armed with his delightful personality. John could almost hear Sherlock's thoughts: 'What could go wrong?'

Stupid man.

John lurked on the corner of the street, observing the building. He couldn't see Sherlock anywhere and he felt suddenly afraid that his own hastiness had put the detective in danger. He prayed to god that Sherlock's phone hadn't given him away.

Started by a sudden noise, John crouched behind a car and observed the house with more attention. He couldn't see what was going inside it, since the windows were too high, but he saw three cars leaving the car park and then turning the other corner of the street, leaving the neighbourhood. If lucky, Sherlock had waited for that moment to get out of hiding and investigate. It was like him to hide in plain sight with that ridiculous coat and ridiculous collar turned up to hide his own pale face. As good camouflage as any, John supposed. He stood up without taking his eyes out of the house.

Now that he was there, he asked himself how the bloody hell would he enter the house. The gate was now closed and Sherlock had always been the one in charge of the lock picking. John had learned a thing or two, of course, but he had put a limit at buying himself a kit like the one Sherlock proudly carried in his inner pocket.

The problem was solved for John before he could take a step ahead.

There, on the wall, was Sherlock, balancing himself like a ballerina in tightrope. John was confused for a moment, but his confusion turned to panic when he understood why Sherlock was walking over a thirty foot tall wall. There was a guy running after him – probably the guy Sherlock was there to investigate. John felt his heart race fast seeing Sherlock perched there. It was too soon for fucking walls and great heights in John's opinion. He had had two years to not get over that.

His first instinct was to shoot the guy. John was too far away to be of more immediate assistance. He was drawing near, but didn't want to scare the suspect or make Sherlock lose his balance. He couldn't simply start shooting from the street; he didn't know who was inside the house, he didn't want to draw attention to himself.

John looked over and felt his blood run cold. The man was now holding a gun straight at Sherlock's head.

Well, that decided the matter.

It all happened too fast.

John shot the attacker's hand to make him drop his gun, but the guy took his own shot. At the same time, Sherlock and him fell from the wall. The suspect fell on the street, Sherlock fell inside the house.

"No," John said, trying to get his voice to work, since his body was failing him. He was running, he knew, but he couldn't feel the wind on his cheeks, or the ground under his feet. It was like trying to run underwater.

The wall wasn't that high, he told himself. It wasn't.

The suspect was lying unconscious on the floor, and his gun had fallen near him. He had been knocked unconscious, and his hand was bleeding, but nothing serious. Even without practice for so long, John was still a crack shot. He instinctively grabbed the guy's gun and stuck it in his pocket. His mind had one and only one aim.

The gate was still locked, but John's priorities had changed. He shot the lock twice without worrying about the noise and prayed for someone to call the police. His heart was threatening to climb out of his throat.

The wall was not that high. It was not.

The kicked the gate open and found Sherlock trying to stand up from a bunch of rubbish bags he apparently had fallen into. He was grunting and sounded dizzy, but had no visible injury and John felt the rush of relief weaken his legs. He shook his head and set to work crouching beside Sherlock.

"Easy, easy," he told him, while checking for any strains or concussion. He tucked his gun back in his jeans and held Sherlock's neck tenderly. The detective's eyes were unfocused, and he blinked slowly.

"John?" He asked, confused.

"Who else would it be?" John said, helping Sherlock to sit up. "Did you hit your head? Are you hurt?"

"No," Sherlock said, sounding annoyed that John had the need to ask such boring and trivial questions. "What are you doing here?"

"What I am..." John stopped himself and sighed. He thought it was bloody obvious what he was doing there. "What do you think I'm doing here? Are you mad, running after a whole fucking cartel like this?"

"Stop shouting," Sherlock said. John thought he had meant it to be petulant, but it had sounded more like a request. He had definitely hit his head. John jumped into looking for any sign of concussion, keeping his left hand on the detective's neck. He was vaguely aware of his thumb brushing over the end of one of Sherlock's curls.

John felt suddenly light headed after to Sherlock's voice. He wasn't used to seeing Sherlock falling and then being able to still talk to him.

There wasn't an injury now, but if John closed his eyes for too long, he could see the bloodied pavement. The wrist he was holding now in his right hand was warm and alive, but if John just took a bit longer to open his eyes again after blinking, he could feel the dead pulse on the tip of his fingers.

He was being transported to the past, when he had taken Sherlock's pulse and for a second his mind had fooled him that there was something. His rushing blood had made his own fingertips throb and he had hoped, for a second, despite his own medical knowledge, that the pulse was Sherlock's.

All sound became background noise and John had the impression that he was the one falling.

"John!" Sherlock was staring with round, worried eyes.

John wanted to say that Sherlock was the one who needn't shout, but his mouth was dry and his chest tight. He sat on the ground and breathed deeply, counting and trying to get a hold of his own damn person before he embarrassed himself even more in front of Sherlock. John was well aware of the signs of a panic attack. It had been months since he had last had one, though. That was why he had asked Mary to marry him, because he thought he was better.

"John," Sherlock said, and made it sound like a question. Or at least John thought so. His perception was compromised.

He forced himself to look straight into Sherlock's eyes because he needed to see him, needed to know that he was there, insufferably and amazingly alive. He had to force himself to do it, but the fear of closing his eyes overlaid the rest. He moved his thumb from the errant curl to Sherlock's pulse point just to feel the beat, just to reassure himself that it was not a mind trick, not this time. He took a great number of soothing breaths. Sherlock was calling his name over and over again, but he remained stock-still. John basked in the voice, feeling glad for another reassurance.

Slowly, he came back to himself.

Slowly, he realized the position they were in. The distance between them wasn't more than five inches, he could feel the warm puff of breath leaving Sherlock's lungs on the tip of his nose.

He retreated his hands from Sherlock's body and rubbed his sweaty palms over his jeans. He couldn't remember exactly when he had sat, but there he was, with Sherlock right in front of him. After John freed him, he moved and sat shoulder to shoulder with John, resting his back on the wall. They could hear the sirens at distance. Someone had called the police at last.

"Where's the suspect?" John asked, because he'd be damned if he would sit there and talk to Sherlock about his Sherlock-induced panic attacks. That wouldn't do at all.

Sherlock cleared his throat and looked away. "I don't know."

"You don't know?!" John said, stunned. It wasn't like Sherlock to admit he didn't know things, let along things about the crimes he was currently investigating.

"Well, I fell from a wall, didn't I?" Sherlock stood up and paced in front of John. The movement was a familiar one. "I didn't even think—" he stopped talking, but continued pacing.

John Watson had a few talents. One of the most important ones was being able to save Sherlock Holmes – at least when he was allowed to help. Sherlock seemed lost, and even if John didn't know exactly why (Because of the panic attack? Had he made the connection? Because he had fallen of a wall? Because he had lost the suspect? Because John was there?), he knew how that worked.

John took a deep breath and stood up again, stretching his muscles and taking his gun again. The police sirens were very close, but he knew Sherlock needed some resemblance of normalcy at that moment. He did too, if he was honest to himself. Sherlock gave him a small smile, but John could see the fire lit up on those eyes. He knew them too well. He suspected his weren't very different.

"Come on," John said, with a motion of his head, indicating that Sherlock should follow him and not the other way around. Oddly enough, Sherlock promptly complied. "The game is on and all that," John said, and heard Sherlock let out a giggle. Here they were again, John thought. One had fallen off a wall and the other had just felt the beginning of a panic attack, and they were both giggling. Whatever the hell was wrong with them, John sighed to himself, he was glad there were two of them again.

00oo00oo00

Lestrade was looking at them in a funny way.

It had all been a bit ridiculous, John agreed, but he didn't need to mock them.

They had left the car park ready to chase the suspect and had stepped right into a street full of police cars and worried neighbours. Lestrade had already cuffed the suspect, who had been trying to run away when he arrived there.

Sherlock and John had almost been shot by mistake. John didn't know why they hadn't thought about the danger of showing themselves in front of the police with a gun at hand. Were they so engrossed in their own selves? John knew the feeling, but he was stunned by Sherlock's distraction.

It was easy enough for John to understand then. Sherlock had been giving him space and something else to think about after the panic attack. John was glad for it.

They giggled for minutes after the whole ordeal and Lestrade looked at them as if they were mad, which was so familiar that it left John feeling a little self-conscious. There he was, once again, behaving like a teenage boy, running around with his best mate, terrorizing the neighbourhood instead of doing his homework.

Or going back to his wife, for that matter.

It was a very strange feeling for him, as if this life wasn't his anymore to live and he didn't have the right to live it. And how bloody unfair it was that he had gotten a second chance and couldn't enjoy it?

He stopped thinking about it and focused on Sherlock while he explained to Greg how he had deduced that the the suspect – one Charles, apparently – had been lying all along. He had been arrested for a single kidnapping that was registered as his first offence, but it had been obvious that he was into something bigger. At least it had been for Sherlock. Greg didn't seem much surprised by the fact that it hadn't been obvious to him. Of course he hadn't noticed Charles' fine clothes, his brand new watch, his suspicious tan and the foreign bills in his wallet. The guy had been clearly implicated in an enormous scheme to get cocaine inside British borders. Colombian pesos, tan, nice clothes... Sherlock said it hadn't been a difficult leap, that he had seen those signs before.

John had too. It made his heart ache remembering those days in which the pool hadn't happened yet, in which they didn't know Moriarty would burn the heart out of Sherlock. John still asked himself what that had been about.

As for his own heart, John knew it had been burned to a crisp. He was suddenly glad for having a second chance.

Sherlock continued to pace about, all billowing coat and strings of deductions. Greg still had that funny look on his face, but he wasn't looking at Sherlock, he was looking at John. John thought the DI was remembering their first time together.

The three of them had gathered around a corpse one day and John's life had changed completely.

Sherlock finished his deductions and to all their surprise, it was Greg the one who said it.

"Brilliant," he stated, once again looking at John. They smiled knowingly.

John hid his smile behind his hand and thought about how much he had missed this. He silently thanked Greg for being able to say what he yet couldn't.

He had never thought it would be possible to miss feeling stupid, but the truth was that being around Sherlock had always allowed him to take action, to do things instead of having to waste time analysing whatever it was they had been investigating. He trusted Sherlock one hundred percent, and was willing to shoot in whichever direction he pointed because one couldn't get cleverer than Sherlock.

The detective was looking between Greg and John, frowning. When he made the connection and smiled too, he seemed strangely embarrassed by it. He cleared his throat.

"Well, do you know that you keep saying that out loud?" And when he lifted his head again, his eyes flew directly to John's.

John knew the silence had been enough to say that there would never come a time when he wasn't going to think that, even if his throat was too tight to say it. He thought Sherlock understood too. They shared tiny nods, and kept their eyes on each other's. Sherlock was probably trying to deduce him. John was just unable to look elsewhere.

"Well, off you go," said Lestrade, interrupting the silence.

John and Sherlock frowned, finally taking his eyes off each other and looking at Greg for an explanation. "Don't you want our statements?" John asked.

"Nah, it can wait 'til tomorrow. The two of you will show up tomorrow at Scotland Yard, won't you? So, that's settled," Greg said, not leaving room for objections. John wasn't stupid, he knew what he was being tricked into. He was torn between being mad about this or about the fact that he needed to be tricked in the first place.

Sherlock cleared his throat again. John made a note to look for signs of a cold or infection. The detective seemed to be doing that a lot lately. "We'll see," he said simply.

John wouldn't say that his heart fell, that would be too emotional for it. And he didn't have the right to be disappointed. He was the one who had been running away from Sherlock since he had come back, it was only natural that Sherlock would prefer to do this alone.

Lestrade had walked away and started talking to some neighbours.

John thought it was time he headed back home. One could only pretend everything was the same for so long.

"So, I'd better be off then—" he said, at the same time Sherlock asked "Are you hungry?"

Sherlock's face fell – and John was sure it was a genuine emotion. "Oh," he said. "Of course."

John could just walk away, he had done it before. He could pretend again that it would be enough to shut out the gut feeling that connected him to Sherlock. He turned his body away and watched the street ahead.

He could go home and continue to feel hollow, restless, miserable, no doubt. But he was so tired of that.

An hour earlier, Sherlock had fallen from a wall and John had had a panic attack but everything had seemed a thousand times better than all the hours before.

He took a deep breath and gave up trying so hard. He turned back toward Sherlock. John licked his lips and smiled awkwardly. "You know what? I'm starving."

Sherlock had no reaction, he stood there looking at John without blinking. John started fidgeting. He knew Sherlock hadn't ask him to dinner just to be polite, so what the hell was that about?

The detective snapped out of it and smiled a smile that John knew well. It never ceased to impress him, however. He returned it in fullest, and didn't miss the fact that it had come naturally.

00oo00oo00

They sat in front of each other in the small booth. The small Chinese restaurant was nearly empty, which was not unusual, given it was almost 2 am. Sherlock ate ferociously while John watched him.

"What?" Sherlock asked around a mouthful of dim sum. He tried to smile, but it was quite a lot of food.

John laughed. "You eating without Mrs Hudson bothering you about it."

Sherlock swallowed the food and took a large gulp of water. "Or you," he said, and the left corner of his mouth turned slightly up.

John sighed. "Or me," he agreed.

Sherlock continued to eat and John continued to watch him. He knew it would be awkward to other people, but they weren't other people. He let himself watch the lines of Sherlock's mouth and the movement of his Adam's apple, glad for the little signs of life emanating from the body in front of him. When Sherlock lifted his eyes from his plate and looked straight into John's, John continued to stare.

That was certainly inappropriate, John thought, vaguely. It should be strange for mates to share that kind of look. And yet, John felt washed by the rightness of it. He had felt like that since the beginning. It was terrifying to realize how right it still felt, and John tried to ignore the fear of having all that ripped out of him again.

He willed away the tightness in his chest and washed down the dryness of his mouth with a glass of water. Sherlock must have realized the turn of John's thoughts, because his lips had become tense and he was looking at John as if trying to think of the adequate thing to say.

John hated when Sherlock tried to be adequate because it always ended up in lies. He had always accepted Sherlock's inadequacy. He didn't deserve to be fooled by his fake niceties.

Something on his face must have told Sherlock that he'd better keep his mouth shut. The other man kept eating, now more slowly than before, chewing mechanically and swallowing audibly. The quality of the silence changed and in a second they were back to feeling awkward and wrong around each other. John didn't want to make things worse, but his empty mouth had its own opinions.

"Are you ever going to tell me?" He asked, drawing randomly in the water condensation on his glass. He looked at his own fingers for a bit, then lifted his eyes again to meet Sherlock's.

Sherlock had that expression on his face that screamed that he had no idea what to say. John could almost hear the gears of his mind working. Working to fool John yet again. John was so sick of it.

"Don't lie to me again," he said, rubbing his hands together under the table. "Just tell me the truth. Will you tell me?"

"I'd prefer not to speak of it ever again," Sherlock said, and sounded honest. His eyes were shiny, and he also had his hands under the table. John suspected they were mirroring each other's positions.

John's breath caught is his lungs. He didn't know what to make of that. Sherlock didn't want to talk about jumping? Or he didn't want to talk about what had happened in those two years?

"Neither," Sherlock said, starting John. Nothing new about Sherlock reading John like an open book. This time, John refused to feel awkward about it, or to question Sherlock's right to do it.

"Were you hurt?" John asked, because, when it came down to it, it was the thing that mattered the most to him. It felt like trying an old pair of jeans that fitted perfectly. That had been his place. He was admitting he had missed it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, trying to act like he didn't understand John's worry, but he smiled and John could tell it was fond. "Honestly, doctor..."

"Well, that's me, I am a doctor," John conceded, unhelpfully.

"And a soldier," Sherlock pointed out, arrogantly.

"Yes, stop being a smart arse. I'm both."

Sherlock looked at him intently and nodded. "I know." His eyes had a familiar blaze in them. John had seen it a dozen times, but had never been able to tell what it meant. Admiration, maybe? Just the thought of that seemed ridiculous to John.

"So, were you injured?" John asked, stubbornly. He had spent enough time around Sherlock to learn to be annoying when it suited him.

"A bit," Sherlock admitted. "Nothing serious."

John had the urge to ask to see any scars, partly because he needed as much reassurance as he could get, and partly because he was, indeed, a doctor, and Sherlock had been his patient for a long time. He suspected he had been the only doctor Sherlock had ever willingly submitted himself to.

John resented that he didn't know if he had the right to ask this from Sherlock anymore, that they were not going back to the same house at the end of the night, and that he wouldn't be able to follow Sherlock's health as closely as he did before.

And how ridiculous of him was that? Sherlock was a grown man, had lived well enough before John and had lived well enough after him. He didn't need babysitting or John caretaker tendencies. He was fine.

Or apparently fine.

John hated not knowing.

He didn't need John to know, John reminded himself firmly. He hated getting all tangled up in his own pitiful drama. He was the one who wanted to know and who couldn't find it in himself to ask.

He cleared his throat and refocused his eyes on Sherlock's again, who was looking at him knowingly. He seemed tense.

"I was beaten, I didn't get shot. But I was beaten," Sherlock said, hurriedly. "A few times," he concluded.

"A few times?" John asked, holding his left hand in a tight fist.

"Not more than six, maybe seven," Sherlock said and grimaced. John knew that it wasn't caused by memories, but by John's own expression.

"You were beaten six times," John repeated, trying to calm himself, but his voice was loud and echoed in the empty restaurant. However, he knew it was useless to shout now, to try to soothe violence with more violence. He had already done that.

"It's fine," Sherlock said, watching John closely.

"No," John shook his head. "It's not fine at all," he argued. He decided to let his voice get as loud as he needed. "You have no idea... You should have let me go with you."

"I know," Sherlock said. And it was so low that John thought he had imagined it. "But it was impossible."

John didn't want to have that conversation. He didn't want to tell Sherlock that he thought the real reason was that Sherlock simply had not wanted John there. John had ceased to be convenient.

Sherlock huffed and John turned his attention back to him. "You see, but you never observe, do you, John?" He asked, sounding tired.

"No, I don't. I was used to having you for that," John said, without thinking. "Until one day I didn't," he looked at Sherlock, willing him to understand John's hastiness. He wasn't trying to punish Sherlock, he didn't think so. He was just tired. He wanted things to go back, but he couldn't wish that. He wanted his two lives to fit each other perfectly and to be complete again.

"You still do," Sherlock said.

And John was so glad, so fucking glad to hear that. He swallowed around the lump in his throat, took a deep breath and nodded, then sipped his now lukewarm water.

"Well, yes, I'm glad," John said. "And you have your doctor back."

Sherlock smiled and nodded back.

The waiter came to their table and they asked for the bill. After they had paid, they picked up their coats in a comfortable silence and headed for the door.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to John with a look of pure mischief in his eyes. "You can be my doctor again now you've shaved that thing off," and he laughed out loud.

John had the urge to tackle him to the ground, but he ended up joining him in a round of laughter that he was sure was inappropriate for 3 am.

Teenage boys, John thought.

I'll probably be changing by update day to thrusday, I thought I should warn you all! (: