Disclaimer: I own not a thing.

Life after John's marriage was a bleak, horrible thing. Sherlock even had cases to distract himself with, but suddenly 'married to his work' sounded like a mocking. It had been true, once. There was a time – he reminded himself – when the Work on its own had made him happy – more happy than most marriages made other people, even.

Now he couldn't help it. He missed John. Of course, John was on his sex holiday, busy shagging Mary in exotic locations. He had no time to think of Sherlock. (Hacking the blog was a petty act of revenge, he knew).

But when even the sex holiday ended, there was still no word for him. Not one friendly, "Remember to eat today." Or, "Mary's so perfect. I just have to tell it to someone." It'd break his heart, but it'd be something. Something Sherlock was hungry for.

He was at his lowest. Once he burst in tears at the damn radio. He'd turned it on for the white noise it provided (no TV, he couldn't watch TV without John) and Dusty Springfield was singing, "You don't have to say you love me – Just be close at hand," and it was too much.

One day later, he was off searching for drugs (because it would offer Magnussen an easily exploitable pressure point, of course).

Thank God for Janine. Having to act saved him from curling up and waiting to die. (Though, what the hell was Sherl? He didn't like it one bit.) Of course, Janine was a bit surprised from Sherlock's reluctance to get naked, but he'd mentioned something about detection being a dangerous work and many scars – which wasn't even wrong – and as long as she was satisfied somehow (no sex – women really weren't his area) she didn't complain or even tried to reassure him.

He would never had done anything else. He wasn't about to give Magnussen his true secrets. There was no doubt that Janine would be made to talk about him. Her boss would have seen him as a way to get to Mycroft. (His brother wasn't exposed to blackmail. He cared for nothing and no one.)

It was mere chance that finally sent adrenaline-addicted John back into his path. (Well, he might have chosen a drug den near John's new home since he didn't have the heart to – he couldn't – go to John himself. He wasn't supposed to bother the newlyweds.)

For a moment, he thought it was all a beautiful, beautiful trip (might need more of this particular concoction). But John was angry and disappointed and true. And jealous, why was he jealous? No, maybe only baffled. If he'd found David inside Sherlock's bedroom he wouldn't have probably batted an eyelid. Anyway, he agreed to being involved in cases once again. If he went around spraining people for the heck of it his best friend definitely needed it. Lucky Sherlock.

The sleuth honestly hadn't expected what happened. He was off his game, made stupid by confusing feelings (awful things, these), willful blindness (she had to be somewhat good – she made John happy) and maybe a depth of desperate recklessness (what could Mary do to him worse than she had already done?).

Mycroft would be so annoyed, having to bribe and/or threaten his doctors to keep his secret. "You should know better than get shot, Sherlock." The detective could imagine that perfectly. Which he would normally agree with, but there were consequences to getting shot (hopefully not only by Mary Watson).

John was back in 221B. If it would ensure it in a permanent fashion, Sherlock would have no qualms over arranging to be shot monthly. He'd have to check if being stabbed worked as well, and exactly how serious the wound needed to be to ensure John's continued presence in Baker Street. Serious enough, he suspected. Well, he could endure it. As long as John stayed. And he had to do all this covertly. He was almost sure that his doctor would deem that kind of manipulation more than a little not good.

In the end, he had no time to implement this plan. Because Magnussen was threatening John and his family (the baby had to be safe – hence, Mary had to be safe too, whatever Sherlock thought of her). And once again, the sleuth had misjudged the situation (stupid stupid STUPID). No matter. John would be safe. And he...he'd face whatever he had to. (He didn't want to leave. Not again. Why didn't they just mercifully shoot him down?)

He had a couple of minutes with John. (A life – he'd wanted his whole life to be spent by his...friend's side). He said things his friend wouldn't – shouldn't – understand. "Sherlock is a girl's name". Or, "Sherlock Watson. That's perfect. That's as things should be."

And when he shook his hand, he covertly passed John one black quill. He wouldn't be leaving John. Not entirely.

"Sherlock...What?" the doctor queried, surprised.

"It fell on his own," he replied smoothly. Lie. Plucking it out hurt, but much, much less than any of the rest he went through. "You liked my wings. I thought...rather than binning it..." He was painfully awkward. What if John didn't want it? Stupid, Sherlock.

"Thank you. It's so beautiful. But are you sure you're fine? If you're losing them..." Worried, caring John. Sherlock hadn't meant to make him worry. He couldn't do anything right.

"It was the one, John. I'm fine, I promise," he assured.

"If you say so..." John conceded, not entirely convinced.

Sherlock had to leave on his own before his minders made him. It was the most difficult thing he'd ever done. No hope of coming back to sustain him. "See that he's happy," he'd begged Mycroft earlier. The only thing Sherlock would ever ask for in his life.