It's Sunday somewhere dammit

Sorry I let this slip a little bit. But it's still here. And I mean it's going to be here for a while anyway it's not like you guys are losing anything.

Read and enjoy. Author's Note in the last chapter.

"Henry Watson sustained critical injuries. He was dead instantly. Lecuyér was shot in the arm by one of your men before he could take a second shot."

Mycroft shifted in his chair - my chair, actually - and tapped the handle of his umbrella with a bemused grin on his face. "Argall. He was your secret weapon all along."

You nodded, sitting down. "His connection with Mrs. Watson became evident as Anne expressed her side of the story. Her plan was to kidnap and transport John to Wales, that much was the truth, but the one thing that didn't connect was Argall. Anne couldn't have weighed more than 50 kilos, and although she was athletic, against a 85 kilo military man, she was shot, and she would've known it. She's too intelligent to have jumped into deep water without a back-up plan. After eliminating several other possibilities I determined that had to have been on Anne's side from the beginning."

"Then why would he disrupt their plans and blow her cover?"

"Because he realized that there was a way to not only save John, but to topple Lecuyér's brigade at the same time. He chose to stay with Elouise and to wait for the opprotune moment to reveal himself. He let me move Wilhem into a position of weakness, and then fufilled the deal with Mrs. Watson."

"Mrs. Watson. John's mother."

"Yes. Without her, I'm not sure how this situtation would have played out. She had only a handful of chances to influence her husband's game, but she played her cards well, and she knew when to step back and let Henry and I resume for her. She and Anne had been friends for several years, but she had not known Argall well before the situation occured. Anne had introduced them after he expressed his disloyalty, and the three of them developed their plan."

"That's all good, very good." Mycroft nodded. "But, Sherlock, explain to me the pills. You told me that John had been poisoned by Elouise, but the pills that you've examined have all been perfectly ordinary."

"Oh, yes, that." You sighed. "It took a bit of prodding, but Elouise has already admitted to the burglar."

"Burglar?"

"Favél Augustin. French young man we nabbed the day after New Year's. He was hired by Elouise to replace the medicine from our cabinet with duplicate pills specifically designed for John. The duplicates had the exact same make-up, but had been coated with a benzodiazepine concentrate that caused John to begin overdosing within just a few days."

"This whole thing could've been overwith a lot quicker if you'd just listened to me in the first place." I said from the kitchen. "I knew those pills were bad news."

You discreetly rolled your eyes and continued. "In addition to the pills, there was a nurse in the hospital who was paid off to keep the blood tests coming back clean. The doctor himself had no part of the plan, and we're not pressing charges, but I do suspect that we will not be seeing him in the future."

I hummed my concurrance.

"Wilhem and Elouise Lecuyér are scheduled to be in court by the end of the month, Wilhem on a charge of first-degree murder, Elouise for accessory to murder and assault. Anne Carter and Jack Argall have agreed to testify, and with the evidence they've been able to collect, the jury has had their verdict practically handed to them. John and I have decided that it's not necessary for us to invest ourselves in the case any-more, and he's chosen not to witness for either Elouise or her father. I'm certain that we will not be hearing much of the Lecuyér family for a very long time."

"Good. There are no suspicions of Wilhem being connected to Moriarty?"

"Not any strong ones. Anne had mentioned that Lecuyér was the owner of a drug cartel based in Afghanistan, but his personal files don't lead that direction, and neither Argall nor Anne have focused much on that aspect. If this cartel does or did exist, it might have brushed fingers with Moriarty, but I wouldn't consider it a high priority at this point."

"That's excellent news for us, then."

"It is."

He nodded, his eyes wandering up to me. "And what of the Watson family? There was a funeral?"

"On the fourth." I answered.

"My condolences to you," He said.

"Thank you."

"Was it well attended?"

"It was." You answered. "Friends, family. Plenty of tears and well-wishes. No threats. No suspicious activity." You leaned back. "Anne has elected to stay with Mrs. Watson until her period of grieving has passed, and until we can be confident in her mental and emotional status. I had a word with Patricia's chief-of-staff as well before we left and made sure that he knew to contact us if he were to notice anything worth mentioning."

"Harry's planning on coming back to Cardiff, too, to look after Mum." I added. "But I think she'll be fine."

"Good." Mycroft swung his umbrella. "It seems as if the two of you have already ironed out most of the details, then."

"Most. John's scheduled to meet with a new doctor of Lestrade's recommendation to discuss the medical side of his detox. He's insisted on retaining Ms. Thompson as his therapist, however. I'm holding the duplicate pills for experimental purposes, but John's staying off anxiety medication for the time being. We've installed a new security system around the house, and we're keeping the dog. He might turn out to be useful to us at one point or another."

"Sherlock." I said, flatly.

You turned. "What?"

I stood in the middle of the kitchen, the door to the oven hanging open. I wasn't quite sure whether to laugh or shout at you; I couldn't even believe my eyes at first, but as I pulled the package out from the bed of the oven, I was sure that it was Mycroft's present. It smelled like ash and dirt, but it still had the little golden bow and tag on the top. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson.

"Let me guess." I frowned. "You deleted this, too."

You stared at the box. "Was that important?"

"You still haven't opened it?" Mycroft shook his head. "I might've been offended, under different circumstances."

"Sorry. I'll open it now." I scowled at you and set the gift down on the kitchen table. The box was limp with cold but opened easily, revealing a tall bottle of bright champagne that sparkled under the kitchen light. As I pulled it out, the name Lecuyér blinked at me. I studied it for a long moment, then turned it back and held it for you and he to read.

"I bought two bottles from an auction," He defended. "I do suppose it's a bit strange now, considering."

You and I stared at him with blank expressions.

He adjusted himself. "If you're thinking that I somehow knew about this, you're mistaken. It's just- an odd coincidence."

I looked at the bottle again. "Well, I just hope it makes up for the trouble."

Setting the bottle down, I turned back to my kettle of tea and poured myself another cup. You and your brother fell into silence, but it was a nice kind of silence, silence that had nothing more to worry about rather than a silence that had nothing more to say. The fire crackled in the fireplace, and Mycroft's umbrella began tapping again on the floor.

"The case is over, the problem is solved," He said, slowly, "But one thing still bothers me."

"What is it?"

"The letter from John's father. I understand its nature, but why would Henry Watson choose to write such an offensive page when a less painful topic would've served its purpose just as well. It seems almost contradictory to his character."

"That was something I had noticed, too." You agreed. "His goal for the letter was to keep John distant from himself and his wife, but he chose to do it in a way that would not only distance him but eliminate John'ss confidence in them. I never had the chance to discuss it with Henry, but I would suspect that he had chosen to target our relationship for a reason. It could have been to test John's dedication to me, or to test his motive in pursing a homosexual relationship rather than a heterosexual one. But, regardless of either, it's quite clear that Henry was thinking of John's well-being when he chose his words."

"How so?"

"He wanted John to be strong. That was what he needed John to be. And I believe that that was what he said. 'John, be brave, because something is coming, and you need to be prepared for it.' He shocked him, he woke him up, so that he wouldn't be unprepared for what was ahead of him. I don't know how much Henry knew, or how much he expected. But he wanted John to be ready for whatever waited for him."

The sun started to set, and the two of you had kept on talking nearly all afternoon. Eventually I gave up listening to you and sat at the window with my paper and cuppa. The snow had been coming down pretty heavy all morning but had now lightened into a soft flutter, the fluffy flakes criss-crossing slowly across the sky. Footsteps had padded down the snow just past our front steps, and plenty of passerbys had gone on without a second thought to the gently-glowing lamp beside the door.

However, one black umbrella faltered beneath the lamp. It stayed there several minutes, twirling in the snow, hovering just below the lamp until I caught sight of it. I rose to get a better look, and caught a quickly glance of a tuft of red hair just below the rubber fringe.

I pulled on my coat from where it hung beside the door, quickly untangling my boots and gloves before wobbling outside. The air had already gotten it's night-time chill, but Anne hadn't paid much mind to it. Her nose and cheeks were already blushed with it. She greeted me with a little smile.

"Back from Cardiff so soon?" I asked, carefully crutching down the stairs.

She nodded. "Patricia gave me permission to go. Harry's with her now."

"How is she?"

"Better. Getting better." She studied the ground, then me. "And you?"

I shrugged, stomping a little to keep blood in my toes. "I'll be alright."

She nodded and watched the snow. I noticed then the discoloration in her eye, still aparent since Elouise, and the bruise along her jaw, but I didn't mention it. Her hair was straight and pulled away from her face; clean, orderly, plain. Her eyes sparkled with the same interest she had that night before, watching the snowflakes off the balcony at Anderson's, but now they seemed so distant. They fell back to mine in a stroke. This time I didn't feel the need to glance away. She was glass, nearly drained of all her color.

"I wanted to talk to you, John." She said.

"About what?"

"The first night we met, at Mycroft's. I wanted to explain something to you."

"Of course. Go ahead."

"I did put a drug into your wine. But it wasn't supposed to do what it did."

I paused. "What does that mean?"

"What I gave you was a starter dose of Elouise's drug. It was supposed to work within three days, to make you prone to anxiety. It wasn't designed to initiate panic attacks. In fact, I was almost afraid I had given you the wrong thing. Nothing was supposed to happen."

I blinked. "What does that mean?"

"The panic attack, or whatever it was. The first one. It was real."

I stared at her, fumbling for words. "Then- all this, with the anxiety and the attacks, it all would've happened regardless of Elouise?"

"Not regardless. Just, for the most part."

I let my face fall, but Anne put her hand on my shoulder and coaxed my eyes back to hers.

"That doesn't mean you won't get better, John. It just means that you should be aware. Nothing starts where we think it starts; there are always secrets, always things we wouldn't never expected, could've never expected. The battle would have come regardless of the circumstances, but that's just how it works sometimes. Y'know?"

I nodded. She let go of me and let me stay quiet for a few minutes, the wind whistling between us.

"I just thought you should know."

A little chirp rang out from her pocket. She dug her hand in and pulled out her phone, frowning at the sceen. I knew that she was leaving. She didn't want to, and I didn't want her to, but somehow I knew our opinions didn't matter much. Her smile was small.

"I have to leave now, John." She said, quietly. "Give my best to Sherlock, alright?"

I tipped my head to her, and she turned, her dark umbrella hiding most of her from sight. She walked slowly, but purposefully, and I could still see in perfect clarity the glassy stare with which she watched the snow. Instantly she was far away. I finally felt that closure that I had been missing, the closure that came as Anne passed out of our lives as silent and small as she came. An odd nostalgia settled on me. She was the past now, pulling away, growing fainter and fainter as the snow separated us, her red hair fading into the shadows of the street.

But at the edge of the block she glanced back, just once, and lifted her hand to wave.

Night came quickly after that. The sun faded into the distance, and you and I sat down with two glasses of Lecuyér champagne. To my horror, it was actually good.

You stirred up the fireplace, and we lounged in our armchairs, quietly watching the shadows move across the walls. It was nice getting to let our minds rest a little. Your hands fell away from your chin, and your eyes seemed fixed on the little flames, still as the light danced through your curls. We let our walls slowly slip away to the tune of the flames, and as they descended, the easy atmosphere around us fell away as well.

We were recovering, but we were definitely still reeling. It was the first time that we had been alone in the flat, just the two of us, and we had nothing to say. My stomach and head were aching from the detox, and your pride had fallen nearly completely flat since the funeral, which I knew was not good for anybody but which was particularly not good for you. You sipped at your glass with your eyes waxy, focused on anything except for me, and I couldn't help but feel guilty.

"Should we be talking?" I asked, quietly.

You shifted. "Do you want to talk?"

I shrugged. "Maybe it would help. Clear the fog a bit, I mean."

You nodded, swirling your glass in your hand. A few quiet seconds passed, with both of us avoiding each other's eyes, until you cleared your throat. "It's alright if you blame me, John."

"Blame you?"

"For the shot. I should have seen it coming, I should have paid closer attention to Wilhem's position."

"Don't think like that, Sherlock. Of course it wasn't your fault."

"John, I-"

You stopped yourself, setting your glass down on the table beside you. At first I thought you were going to leave, or start crying, or a combination of both. I could see your eyes start to shimmer, but you took a breath and composed yourself, rising from your chair and placing yourself on the floor in front of me.

"I want to apologize," You whispered, "For what I've had to put you through."

"Sherlock, you really don't have to. I don't-"

"No. Let me talk. If not for your benefit, then for mine."

I closed my mouth, biting down on the inside of my cheek. You hesitated, then put your arm beside my leg, gently brushing your fingers against my knee.

"I know now that it was wrong of me to leave you on the rooftop." You began. "I see now that it hurt you in many more ways than I could've imagined, and there is no excuse for me. I understand now how you felt. The thought of losing you puts me on the floor. How you managed to go through such a traumatic experience, and survive, I could have never done. If it were me, I could have never kept on living knowing that I did nothing to help you. That being said, I don't plan on putting myself into that position again."

Your eyes slowly drew to mine. I could hear the intense sincerity in your voice and feel it down my spine like copper. Tears were already starting to swim in my eyes, and I glanced away to hide them, but you moved to sit on the arm of my chair and brush my hair back.

"Can I continue?"

I nodded, wringing my jumper in my hands.

"In a way, your illness is like a danger night." You said. "My brother understood the consequences of danger nights, but misunderstood the importance. He could anticipate them and made sure I was taken care of, yet he never once minded enough to sit with me or care for me himself. But you did. You stayed with me through all my danger nights, through all my detoxes and relapses and hysterics and fits. You recognized them, you prepared for them, and most of all, you cared enough to see me through until the end. Now it's time for me to return the favour.

"This is your danger night, John. I don't know when it started, and I don't know when it will end. But I promise you that I will be here, waiting with you and caring for you until the daylight comes. I will pour every ounce of my being into getting you through, and I will not give up until you're well again. And I'm not doing it because I have to, or because you need me to. I'll do it because I love you, and I need you and I won't lose you again.

"You don't need to be worried about my well-being, or whether or not I'm happy, or whether or not I care. I won't leave you because I can't leave you, and that's all the reason I need. I'm not going anywhere. So depend on me."

I choked back a laugh, tears flowing freely now. "Mum told you to say that, didn't she?"

You stared at me, but your blinks gave you away. "No?"

I sobbed, grabbing you around the shoulders and pulling you against me. You sank down into me, your hands brushing against my arms, touching my hair. I breathed in, the smell of your shampoo filling my lungs, and breathed out. You didn't need to say anything else. You just needed to be close to me. That was all I needed. You were all I needed.

I guess what I'm trying to say, Sherlock, is that I have plenty to blame you for, but, at the same time, everything to thank you for.

There was no way you could have saved my father. The shot was Wilhem's last desperate kick to the teeth. But it was about more than just the shot, and we both knew it. You should have listened to me. You should have realized what was going on. You should have kept me healthy, and kept me sane. But you didn't, and honestly, you couldn't.

What Anne had said was true, not only about the panic attacks, but also about our whole lives. This battle would have come regardless of anything you or I had done. The challenges we're facing didn't start when I drank that first dose. In reality they had begun months ago, when you chose to come back. Or even before, when you chose to leave. Or before, when you chose to stay. Or before, when you chose me, all those years ago in that lab at St. Bart's.

It would have been easy to blame you, much easier than I'll admit. At any point I could have turned and walked away. But I was entrapped by you. You were the reason I had fallen so far, but you were also the reason I kept on fighting. You were the reason I was always in danger, and always getting hurt, and always being used, but you were the reason I was always satisfied, and always growing stronger, and always being saved. I thought that I was psychotic or just self-destructive, but really, I just loved you. And I still love you. Always, always, always.

I hope that in reading this, by being able to see yourself through my eyes, you'll be able to understand just how much I need you, how much I want you, and how desperately I love you. Both of us will struggle, and there will always be hard times. But you are the hero of my story, and I will always be beside you, standing strong and moving forward even if it's for no other reason than to love you the rest of my days.

All my love to you, Sherlock Holmes.

John