A/N Gah. So this failed. A long weekend with the sister, friend trouble and viruses have made this chapter nigh on impossible to get it out. Which is kind of befitting really since this is unlucky number 13 :/ (Wow, we're on 13 already? Wowzas :D) Anyways, I am sorry this is late, it's been the craziest challenge to get this out with everything coming at me recently :D I promise to get next week out without issue :D
Anyway, a dialogue heavy chapter, one of the longer chapters too. I kinda love/hate this chapter so it'll be great to hear what everyone/anyone thinks :D On that note, thanks soooo much to all those people who reviewed! I love you guys so much, you're my inspirations and my muses and (hopefully) friends to me! Also, thanks to all who favourite-d, alerted and such, it is very, very much appreciated to know that people are reading this XD
Prior warning also, sorry for any mistakes made in this, even my spell check was against me this week D':
Disclaimer: I-I- c-can't g-go on. *Blows nose on tissue* It's too h-horrible D': The c-cloud has *sniffle* consumed me and n-now a-all I see is pain *wails* *Monkey pats me on the back and hands me a tissue* THIS IS AWFUL! *Descends into crying fit* H-help s-someone… please? *sobs quietly*

They had returned relatively early from the crime scene, despite Sherlock's distracted demeanour after his phone call. He had been quieter after that, at least for Sherlock's usual standards and although John knew that neither his father nor Lestrade had noticed the change, John had. He had momentarily wondered if he was tired, he was after all still worryingly thin with no significant improvement to his eating habits after his return and John had yet to see him get a full, uninterrupted night's sleep and yet he was more tempted to think that the phone call had played a larger part in Sherlock's unusual behaviour. Whatever Mycroft had said to him seemed to have given him more to think about than the crime scene could offer and the detective had quickly wrapped up his deductions in an offhand, even uninterested fashion.

It was still sunny when they arrived home, the light coming in through the windows and heating the room to an almost uncomfortable level. It was the first time in weeks that the sun had shone and John had to admit that it made the flat look better, the light making the place appear bright and carefree as opposed to the oppressive dark that had been looming in the flat ever since Sherlock's disappearance. It was also the fresh blast of light that revealed to John just how bad the place actually looked and why it was that Mrs Hudson had been complaining for so long about tidying the place up. It was, quite frankly, a mess. There were still boxes of Sherlock's stuff lying around the room, an accumulation of dust that John hadn't had the energy to clean and Mrs Hudson hadn't had the heart to disturb him, a half unpacked mess of chemistry sets and dressing gowns lumped on the sofa from where John had started sorting thm and, perhaps most perturbing off all, mouldy items of food in the kitchen that were, for once, not part of any of Sherlock's experiments and instead food that John had neglected to eat, memories of the months past that were haunting him like a bad smell. Come to think of it, John thought as his nose scrunched up at the sunlit flat, the smell is pretty bad.

"I guess we should really clean this place up. I mean, a lot of your stuff isn't… unpacked yet," John said as he took in the mess as they arrived back home, "And it's starting to look like another explosion happened over here with all this dust and junk lying around." He looked back and tracked Sherlock as the taller man navigated his way over boxes to the mantelpiece, snatched off his mail from under the penknife stuck there and then traversed back to where John stood.

"You do that. I'm going out," he said. That was all he said. With nothing but a nonchalant gaze in John's general direction, Sherlock left, trotting down the steps at a lazy pace without so much as a goodbye or an explanation as to where he was going. John had the urge to run after him but by the time the surprise had left him, the door at the bottom of the hall had slammed and John was once again left alone.

He didn't know why he had been so surprised. Ever since Sherlock had got home he had been distant, like his mind was somewhere else and his body was just here to fill out an obligation, like he really had died from the fall and his corporeal form had simply decided that social protocol had demanded that he stay. And yet, Sherlock had seemed so much happier today when he had been on the case. It had seemed like he had got the old Sherlock back and yet now it was as if he had taken yet another step back, retreating away and into himself once more and John didn't even know whether to be surprised by that or not.

He sighed, pushing the thoughts away as he stared forlornly at the now emptied flat, realising that once again he had been left with nothing but the memories of a best friend that had been taken from him. He skimmed a hand over the dust gathering on the boxes, inspecting the layer with disdain as he consdired the amount of work it would take to restore this place to anywhere close to its old standards. He didn't even bother sitting on his chair, the familiar emptiness beginning to resound at the silence within the flat and he couldn't bear the thought of being sat ocne again in that same spot he had when Sherlock had been gone. Instead, he sat down tentatively on a large pile of the boxes, hoping that they were secure enough to hold his weight and he wouldn't be in danger of having to call Mrs Hudson to come and extricate him from a broken box should he fall in.

His caution almost didn't matter however as he felt a sudden zap to his leg and he almost let out a yell of surprise, teetering dangerously on his already precarious spot. He fumbled for his pocket, pulling out the offending item with a certain degree of chagrin and glared at the phone as it vibrated with an incoming call, making John's glower deepen.

"Hello?" he asked as he accepted the call, settling as best he could back into a comfortable position on the box.

"Sorry John, I know you've only just left but I'm just calling because I've just got into my office… the request I put in has turned up some unusual results once I tweaked it a bit after today's crime scene."

John placed the voice immediately and wondered if Lestrade had gone straight back to the station after they had left, perhaps only turning up at the scene to watch over Sherlock and himself as the Superintendent had seemed to be controlling the scene himself.

"Greg? What request?" John said. Usually Lestrade was a relatively straightforward man and was perhaps one of the most open, honest men that John knew and yet there was a tentativeness to the way he was speaking now, something that made John wonder if anyone else in Scotland Yard knew exactly what it was that Lestrade was looking into.

"You told me to look out for anything unusual, any criminal activity that didn't add up during the months that Sherlock was away but of course, I didn't know exactly what to look for, there were a lot of things going on after Moriarty was no longer around. So today, as soon as I got back from the crime scene, I made the search more specific, Sherlock said something about a sniper being responsible for the deaths and he also said that he had been trying to track down a sniper named Moran who had worked with Moriarty. Now, I couldn't find anything on Moran, but I narrowed the search down to look at any ex-military snipers who had showed up on our records and I found something interesting out."

John listened to Lestrade's low tone and knew that whoever had done this search for him had obviously been told to keep it under wraps. Lestrade was trying to keep this as quiet as he could, from the sound of it and the urgency of his voice told John that he wanted to get to the point as soon as possible.

"What did you find out?" John asked, having to check his own voice as he almost instinctually tried to match Lestrade's low tone before remembering that he had no reason to be whispering.

He heard the sound of a throat being cleared at the other end and he heard a door shut, imagining Lestrade getting up to casually seal off his office from onlookers and curious officers.

"Three ex-military snipers, previously on our records from everything from illegal drug possession to assault and battery, all went missing within those three months," Lestrade said. John frowned, the hollow feeling in his stomach only growing larger.

"Wha- What do you mean, missing? I mean, how can you tell? If they're criminals, isn't it their… well, job, to stay under the radar?" John asked.

"One of them was on parole, he was declared as missing after he missed one of his meetings. Apparently they looked into it and a friend of his, a more close range firearms specialist from Liverpool had been reported as missing too. The other one could be hiding out I guess but since he's usually at the station plenty for drunk driving and assault nearly every weekend, it does seem suspicious."

John nodded, the fact that Lestrade couldn't see him did nothing to stop the motion. He needed something physical, an action to perform, a few split seconds where his mind was focused on nothing but movement as his brain whirred to comprehend the information. Three snipers, all gone missing within the three months, put together with their hypothesis of what exactly had made Sherlock jump and-

"One of them lived on your street John; he was a maintenance man, apparently. And, get this, another one, lived in the flats right across from the station," Lestrade said and John could hear it now, the note of panic resonating in the D.I's voice, the sound of confusion and worry and fear, both of them lighting upon the idea and each wishing they could shy away from it, hide from the truth. It was too much of a coincidence for it not to be true. These men, whoever they were and wherever they had come from, had been what Moriarty had used again their friend. He had used snipers to threaten them.

The chill ran down John's back like a drip of icy water and he felt nauseous at the idea of having been at the mercy at yet another of Moriarty's gunmen, the memory of the incident at the pool, the flaming red dots burning a hole into him still today and he felt a surge of paranoia, brushing his hand against his jacket as if trying to brush off an invisible laser dot. He wondered how much that had been a factor in Sherlock's jump. He knew, beyond a doubt now, that he had discovered what it was that Sherlock was keeping from him. The unexplained "suicide", Moriarty dying, the missing snipers and Sherlock's reluctance to disclose any details at all of that day, what had really happened on the roof; it all added up to one thing. Sherlock had not only saved his life, and perhaps the life of Lestrade and whoever else Moriarty had threatened, but he had given everything to do so. Even his reputation, his work, his life. John wondered if those red dots still haunted Sherlock at all.

"You don't think that could have been why he-" John didn't get to hear Lestrade finish his sentence as his attention was dragged away from the phone by a loud knocking at the door downstairs, followed by a sharp rap of something solid against the glass in the window and John groaned, the effort to stand up seeming too much for him in his current, worn out state and he practically tumbled from his perch. Mrs Hudson was currently out grocery shopping as now that Sherlock was back, she insisted that they would need more food in the house, even though she was "not their housekeeper" and Sherlock didn't eat very much to begin with, let alone now that he has returned.

"John?"

John put his ear back to the phone, cursing his luck that someone had to be at the door right now, at a moment when not only was he still dealing with the fact that he had unknowingly been only one trigger squeeze away from death, but so was a friend on the other end of the phone. Plus, as a soldier he had, although he'd never quite gotten used to it, been in the line of fire before whereas Lestrade had not, at least not to the scale that they were talking about. A sniper had been aiming at their heads without them even knowing it and the only thing stopping them from pulling the trigger was a "semi highly-functioning sociopath". And perhaps the most unsettling thing of all was that neither John nor Lestrade could think of a person they would trust more with their lives.

"Listen, Greg, there's someone at the door; I've got to go get it. It could be Sherlock if he's not bothered to bring his key out with him," John doubted that Sherlock would be back already, especially without a key, but he could always hope, "Can you look into those missing men some more? See if you can find out anything about where they went or how Moriarty got to them?" John doubted if that would really do any good right now, especially with the situation already being as overwhelming as it was, but the unnerved sound of the other man's voice on the end of the phone also made the doctor part of him cry out, deciding to give Lestrade something to be busy with, rather than leaving him alone with nothing but his thoughts as John knew from experience how dangerous that could be.

"Right. Right, I know," Lestrade said. Lestrade sounded as shaky as John felt, the full weight of what this meant coming crashing down upon them. All this time, John had been so angry, so empty and it had been because Sherlock had saved his life, once again. I owe you so much. John had said that at Sherlock's grave and yet, he didn't even know the half of what he owed the detective.

"Just, hold on okay, I'll call you back later," John promised.

The knocking had picked up again by the time John got downstairs, tossing his mobile over to the sofa as he left the room and heard it thud, realising that most of the sofa was almost invisible due to the boxes piled on it.

"Alright, I'm coming!" John shouted and then, quieter, "Stop being so bloody impatient." He wrenched the door open, half expecting to see an impatient looking Sherlock or an agitated police officer stood there when he did. Instead, John was greeted with the sight of a bored, condescending looking Mycroft. He looked like he was about to ask John what had taken him so long and he gritted his teeth. It was bad enough that Mycroft had the nerve to call him, as well as Sherlock, never mind turning up on their doorstep as if the last full conversation he and Mycroft had had alone without Sherlock being there hadn't been about how he had betrayed his younger brother to a dangerous lunatic.

"What are you doing here Mycroft?" John sighed and he held the door so that it turned inwards, shutting off the rest of the hallway from Mycroft's view and discouraging him from entering. The last thing he wanted was an argument with Sherlock when he got back to find his older brother having tea in the flat.

Mycroft dusted off the end of his umbrella, as if knocking on the glass with it had dirtied the point, before returning it to rest on the ground with a flourish that apparently only Mycroft could make look good.

"I'm here to see Sherlock, is he in?" Mycroft said. John scoffed, gesturing past Mycroft to where John could see the black car parked up, not-Anthea stood close by it. "If you were really here to see Sherlock, you'd know he wasn't in. One of your spies would have told you that."

Mycroft gave a chuckle. "I would hardly call them spies, Dr Watson," Mycroft said before his expression became serious again, "Sherlock's absence hasn't made you any less sharp at least, that's a good thing."

"What is it you want, Mycroft?" John interjected. He felt like Mycroft's appearance had instantly drained him, feeling impatient already. He really didn't want to have to deal with family feuds right now, especially not one as explosive as the one between the two Holmes brothers.

Mycroft's expression darkened slightly and he looked as if he was about to step forward to come into the flat but he didn't, instead simply deciding to shift his weight a little, like the question was an object that he had to dodge.

"I was actually hoping that he wouldn't be on. Had to make sure," Mycroft said, evading the question, "I was hoping to talk with you." John was halfway between deflating exasperatedly and rolling his eyes, both actions seeming fitting for the moment.

"We're talking right now," John said. There was a pause and Mycroft studied him for a second, much like Sherlock would when he was trying to decipher exactly what it was that John was feeling.

"You are angry that I… did what I did," Mycroft said.

"A genius deduction," John said dryly. Mycroft sighed.

"John, you must understand that I did what I had to do in order to fulfil the best needs of the country, I assure you that-"

"Don't give me that!" John snapped, his voice raising, enough for not-Anthea to hear and he saw her look up from her mobile, frowning, "I don't want to hear what you told the secret service or whoever you report to when they asked you what they did. You sold out your brother, that's it Mycroft, end of story."

He honestly didn't know what he expected. He didn't know if he expected Mycroft to flinch or to shout or to tell him that he was wrong, or maybe even right; but what he didn't expect was for Mycroft to simply stand there, unperturbed.

"I think we should probably talk inside, don't you Dr Watson? Before you draw any more attention to us. Sherlock wouldn't be too thrilled to hear from any of your neighbours that I was here at your flat," he said simply. John wanted to argue with that, to tell him that the neighbours didn't even know who he was and that Sherlock didn't talk to any of them to find out, at least to John's knowledge. He wanted to point out that if Mycroft wanted to keep a low profile, he shouldn't have turned up in the expensive black car. However, John knew that Mycroft had only made the excuse because he wanted to talk to John without the ever present threat of having the door slammed shut on him and John didn't want to argue for the sake of that. So, growling a curse to himself, he widened the gap in the door and retreated inside, Mycroft following him in a few seconds later.

The look of disapproval was evident on Mycroft's face as he looked over the still-present boxes in the flat. John tried to ignore it, deliberating if he should sit or stand. Standing would put him on the offensive, no doubt putting the point across that he really, really didn't think Mycroft should be in the flat, but he also couldn't really be bothered with the conflict and so decided to deposit himself heavily on one of the wooden chairs that wasn't covered in Sherlock's chemistry sets and laptop.

"I love what you've done with the place," Mycroft said and the dry, falsified sincerity to his tone made John's skin prickle angrily.

"We've not got round to cleaning it yet," John retaliated. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

"'We'? You mean Sherlock and yourself? Or you and Mrs Hudson? I can't imagine my brother tidying this place up Dr Watson, no matter how good a… friend he is to you," Mycroft said and there was a tone of bitterness to it that didn't sound quite right on the usually tight façade that Mycroft often held in place. He said "friend" almost as if he was unfamiliar with the word, like he had never imagined that Sherlock could have gained a friend.

"He might," John said, although he himself knew it was a lie. Mycroft's tone had put him off guard and he felt unsure as to what exactly was coming next, what it was Mycroft wanted.

"Hmm," Mycroft gave a non-descript sound, his eyes surveying over the mess before they fell back to John almost wearily. "I take it you've spoken to Father at some point," Mycroft asked and John blinked, the question catching him unaware.

"Sorry?"

"Robert Holmes, I presume you have spoken to him?" Mycroft repeated. John nodded cautiously.

"Yeah," he said slowly, "Why? What does that matter?" He thought for a moment. "That's what you called about today. You called Sherlock to talk to him about your dad?" Mycroft bristled at John's mention of Robert Holmes and John wondered why assigning the man as "your dad" was such a bad thing.

"I needed to… discuss some things with Sherlock," Mycroft said. John scowled.

"Discuss some things? So you've come here to tell me you've discussed things with Sherlock but you're not going to tell me what they are?"

"They're of no importance Dr Watson."

John exhaled with a puff of annoyed air, trying not to let Mycroft's cryptic response get to him.

"No importance, right. Okay, so, what exactly is it that you're here for? Or did you just turn up to look at the flat? Make sure I was going to clean it? Do you even have your cameras in here anymore?" Mycroft didn't reply, suddenly finding his umbrella a lot more interesting than John, drawing his gaze away from the younger man to inspect the handle. Eventually, almost when John thought he wouldn't get a reply, Mycroft spoke.

"I'm here because I need you to look after my brother, John," Mycroft said.

John gaped. It wasn't the first time John had heard Mycroft ask him to look after Sherlock. The first time he had ever met Mycroft had been a warning to stay away from the consultant but it was also a test to see if he was loyal enough to be Sherlock's flatmate and friend. Mycroft had been worried that, like so many other people, John was going to hurt his younger brother and ever since he had been trusting John to look after him. And yet now the words seemed alien, coming from Mycroft. The quiet, redundant plea sounded out of place coming from someone who had struggled to keep their brother safe from Moriarty and it sounded even stranger when one considered the idea that John was no longer on exactly good terms with the older Holmes brother.

"You want me to look after him?" John echoed. Mycroft nodded, continuing.

"It's none of my business to get involved when it comes to Father but I feel like I need to take certain… precautions," Mycroft supplied.

"Precautions? What precautions? What is it that makes you both so… edgy around your dad? It's the same with Sherlock, he jumps on the man's every word and you-"

"He is dangerous, Dr Watson," Mycroft snarled and the intensity of his words shocked John, "He is dangerous because he does what he wants, when he wants and no-one is able to stop him. He cares about no-one and what I am saying to you, doctor, is that I need you to keep Sherlock from getting hurt." The words were spat so forcefully from Mycroft's mouth it was as if they were dowsed in arsenic and John had never heard his professional title being said with such malice and yet, the malice wasn't exactly directed towards him. He was, after all, still waiting for Mycroft to call the man his father, not just Sherlock's.

"Sounds familiar," John said, "Does what he wants, when he wants. Cares about no-one. Sounds like you two are more alike than you think." He knew the words were cold but there was still a rawness in his stomach, the burning anger that wouldn't go away. It was the memory of the fact that Sherlock could have died and the man responsible for that was dead and there was nothing John could do to avenge what he had been through. The only thing he could do to ease the sharp pain in his gut was to attack the next in line to responsibility, even if he knew it was wrong to do so. Because, if he had to be honest with himself, that person wasn't Mycroft. In his own mind, it was himself. For not being fast enough, not working it out, for not being there with him to help him. But he had already done self-destruction and now the only thing left to do to try and ease the still burning fury was to lash out at someone else. And yet, the pain still hurt.

"I am nothing like him," Mycroft growled. John gave a bitter laugh.

"Yeah, that's rich coming from you. Remind me again which paper that article got published in? Did you even read it? That was a lot of detail-"

"I have done worse things than give details out about Sherlock, Dr Watson. Even if it was to a person like Moriarty. It's the reason why I am asking you to keep Sherlock safe. He won't listen to me."

John allowed himself a few moments to let the words sink in and the quiet regret and desperation, the helplessness that was so uncharacteristic in Mycroft's voice made John's heart soften and he sighed, pity coming over him. He wouldn't forgive what had happened, but for now he knew that they both wanted to keep Sherlock safe.

"What is it Mycroft? What have you done that's made him mistrust you that much?" John asked. He waited and Mycroft's expression changed from helpless to closed-off in a matter of seconds, nothing but silence filling the air.

John never got to ask the question again as the both heard the door shut downstairs, the sound of shoes jogging up the stairs making Mycroft grimace and John saw Sherlock bounding up the stairs.

"John, the sniper from the case, I think-" Sherlock stopped midsentence and John would have laughed if not for the tension in the air, Sherlock's face turning into an instant pout, hair mussed from running, cheeks slightly tinged red as they did when they had been running on a case.

"Mycroft," Sherlock said, the formal tone immediately springing into full force, "What are you doing here?" John's mind kicked back to watch the firework display that was no doubt about to ensue, deciding that the question of what Mycroft was doing at 221B was a topic of hot discussion with everyone today apparently.

Mycroft tilted his head up arrogantly and John almost smiled at the familiar movement. Arguing was easier if he wasn't involved and in all honesty, he appreciated the break, even though the rational part of his mind was telling him he should probably step in at some point soon.

"Questions about your welfare, brother," Mycroft snapped. Sherlock glowered at him, not moving from where he had stood, frozen in the doorway.

"I don't need your help, Mycroft," Sherlock scowled before adding, "I saw your car outside. I take it you skipped the cake at lunchtime so you could take the car here? You wouldn't want to put on any weight."

John raised an eyebrow, the jab being more brutal than usual and he felt his mind shift into Holmes Watch gear, waiting for the right moment to jump in if necessary. Mycroft shot Sherlock a glare.

"I've been losing weight, actually," Mycroft retaliated, "As for you needing my help, of course you don't. After all, you're the expert on Father, Sherlock. You seem to have forgotten however that he left us." John's eyebrows shot up at that, interest piqued. He knew very little about Sherlock's father and although the newspaper article had told him some things about his childhood, a sick mother, a father in the police, it hadn't mentioned that his father had left, instead focusing on his mother's trips in and out of hospital, the school bullies and the extraordinary deductive skills. He was interested to know more about their father however the curiosity didn't last long as Sherlock quickly put a stop to it, glaring murderously at Mycroft.

"Well," he snarled, "You'd know all about that, wouldn't you Mycroft?"

John couldn't see all of Mycroft's face but the look of wounded shock was plain to see and for a moment he was at a loss for words.

"Goodbye Mycroft. Don't let the door hit you on the way out," Sherlock snapped. Mycroft seemed to want to say something, opened and closed his mouth and instead decided to keep quiet. He turned to look at John, nodding, his eyes saying something that John couldn't quite read before he shot one last look at Sherlock and left.

"Well, that went well," John said, feigning brightness a s Sherlock glared his brother out. Sherlock shrugged, walking to the sofa, realising it was unusable and instead flopped on the chair.

"Mm," Sherlock made a sound of agreement, apparently not caring that John was being sarcastic, "It went alright." Sherlock picked up his violin, tucked it under his chin and began to play, the song sounding vaguely familiar but not one that Sherlock played often. Usually, John would let it go, allowing Sherlock his idiosyncrasy and putting it down to Sherlock just being Sherlock. But today it felt different, it felt like Sherlock was keeping him entirely separate from the situation, like the music was a wall of sound to cut him off and the feeling hurt.

He made a sound of frustration as he stood up, wishing that this wasn't how things was, not wanting the confrontation or the stress that this would no doubt bring, while being unable to let it continue. If not because it was uncomfortable, but because it felt pretty damn lonely.

"At least he was doing something, Sherlock, which is a lot more than what I've been doing," John said over the music. Sherlock looked over at him but continued to play, not pausing in it. John sighed, moving to lean against the sofa, realising that this was probably the first time since Sherlock had returned that they had been closer than a metre apart, except from in the taxi to the crime scene, because Sherlock had insisted on being out of the flat more times than he was in, being restless even when he was inside.

"Sherlock will you quit it?" John snapped, "Just stop, okay?" John's temper flared and he couldn't help how the words came out, harsher than he had wanted them too but he reasoned that at least they did the trick as Sherlock's violin came to a smooth halt, the tune playing to what seemed like a natural resting point that Sherlock had easily transitioned into. The bow whipped the air as Sherlock flicked it down to rest lazily by his side.

"There's no need to be so dramatic," Sherlock said smoothly and John had to grit his teeth at Sherlock's infuriating response.

"Listen Sherlock," John began, "You've been different since you came back and I, well I've not done a thing about it because I don't want to push. But you're cutting yourself off, you're not talking, you're not eating. You're not sleeping either, I know because I can hear you bumping around in here at night or on your violin or whatever else you're doing. And that'd be all well and good and well, normal, if you were on a case, but you're not. And you're not talking to me about it, which is probably the worst thing."

Sherlock gave him an odd look, halfway between calculating and observing, utterly penetrating and John felt uncomfortable under the stare, as if Sherlock was deducing exactly what to say to try and end the conversation, matching each possibility to its response.

"Those habits don't seem to be too different from what I would normally display," Sherlock said finally.

"Yes, but Sherlock-" John floundered for a second. He knew that Sherlock's behaviour could be described as usual for him, but in practice it wasn't the same. Sherlock was being distant and he knew it.

"It's different," John finished lamely and Sherlock gave him a sceptical look, making John scowl.

"You know you're doing it!" John cried, "You make an effort to not be in the same room as me, you avoid talking to me, you-"

"Why would I do that? It's illogical to try and avoid you since you're my flatmate so-"

"I don't know Sherlock! You've been like it since you came back and you're doing it on purpose and-" John stopped, the realisation crashing down on him like a tonne of bricks. Sherlock knew what he was doing and he had been doing it ever since he came back, pushing John away with such determination, as if Sherlock was too dangerous to be around, as if he was keeping him away for a reason.

"You're doing it on purpose," John repeated, voice dropping to almost a whisper.

"What?"

"You're doing it to try and protect me, aren't you?" John asked him. Sherlock scoffed, giving him an incredulous expression.

"What? John, that's ridiculous. Protect you from what?" Sherlock said, "Just because we're flatmates doesn't mean we have to be close-"

"You said I was your only friend," John interjected, "I'm not just your flatmate Sherlock, I'm your friend and I know what's going on! You're pushing me away for the same reason I'm frightened of you leaving the flat. I worry every time you go out because the last time I left you on your own, I didn't see you again for three months and thought you were dead! And you, you're pushing me away for the same reason!"

"John-"

"I know why you jumped, Sherlock! I know what you were trying to do, you were trying to save us. Lestrade and I worked it out. There were snipers, weren't they? You did it to protect us-"

"You're being ridiculous," Sherlock snapped and John could tell that he was getting irritated, the words making him defensive. He had hit a chord.

"Am I? You're doing it now, trying to keep me safe by trying to keep me from knowing. Well, it may come as a surprise Sherlock, but I'm a grown man, I can look after myself! I don't need you to try and keep from this, okay? For God's sake Sherlock, I understand where you're coming from, the less friends you have, the less risk they'll be in if this happens again but you can't just push me away!" John cried, "Let me at least help you with this! I'm your friend for God's sake, it's what friends are supposed to do!"

"Friends are not supposed to let the other get put into danger!" Sherlock yelled and he stood up, turning his back to John angrily as if he was making for the door but John ran around the other side of the chair, cutting him off and trying to meet his eye.

"Sherlock, wait, listen-"

"No, John-"

"Don't you think I feel bad?" John shouted. Sherlock's eyes met his as John's voice rose and John felt almost guilty for shouting. "Don't you think I feel bad for not being there to help you?" John asked, quieter.

"I sent you away," Sherlock reasoned.

"I should have known."

Sherlock gave a short bark of laughter. "You couldn't have possibly, I made sure you wouldn't." John smiled at that. It sounded like Sherlock again, pompous but with a hint of affection that made John's chest puff out in pride, knowing he was getting past the mask that Sherlock had drawn up, revealing the old Sherlock beneath. Sighing, he pressed forward a little further.

"Listen, Sherlock, I knew what I was getting into when I became your friend. You're not exactly a normal flatmate. But… that day, we both did things that we thought we had to and we both made mistakes and… what I'm saying is that, quite frankly, I'm just glad you're back. I just want my friend back Sherlock. Even if it gets me into trouble, that's what friendship is for. I can't just stick around when times are easy, I've got to stay when they get rough too."

Sherlock listened in silence, the silence prolonging after John had stopped talking. He looked like he was going to say something but it never came out and in the end, he kept it to himself. Instead, he simply nodded, the understanding clear even as he disconnected the eye contact between them. John felt something relax in his chest and he let out a shaky exhale, seeing the change in Sherlock's demeanour almost instantly, seeing the old Sherlock creep out in the man's body language, in the way he looked at him and then, finally, how he spoke to him.

"Chinese?" Sherlock said and John laughed, a proper laugh that made every tight muscle in his body relax.

"Fancy Indian actually," John said and Sherlock gave a half shrug in agreement.

Sherlock Holmes was finally home at last.

John didn't mention it the day after, yesterday having been the first day he had actually spent with his friend, just Sherlock and nothing else, in three months, but he knew that Sherlock had slept better that night. Although John hadn't seen him asleep, there had been no sounds from the living room, no clinking of chemical equipment or a tune from a violin, no nightmares or pacing up and down and, thankfully, no gunshots. It would probably return when a case opened up but, for now, Sherlock was resting and, more importantly, he was back to his old self, or at least, almost. There were still moments of awkwardness where Sherlock used to fill in with an insult or a joke and it was as if the months on his own had rusted up what social skills he did have but speaking to John seemed to be easier for him and he was able to make up for it moments later with a witticism or a deduction that was oh-so-Sherlock that it made John grin.

John knew that Sherlock would get better now that the shield was down and that, with practice, he would return to himself in no time, the months alone being slowly filtered away, though never completely gone. All that really mattered right now was that Sherlock was back, for real this time and John didn't think he'd been this happy in months.

A/N Okay, so, sappy end to this chapter but I felt it was important to show that John was right in his confrontation and that our Sherlock is finally back! Not to say that that'll stay but for now he's back to his usual self XD Anyway, criticism is muchly, muchly appreciated and I love each and every review sent, so please don't be afraid to say hi! :) I love talking to all you guys, you're awesome :D Anyways, I'll be back with chapter 14 and until then, have a great week guys!