Jo didn't make it downstairs until well after noon. The flat was deathly silent and there was no sign of Sherlock, so she allowed herself to relax a little bit as she found herself something to eat. She sat at the kitchen table, clearing aside some of the scientific equipment in order to give herself a small corner of tabletop. She normally wouldn't have bothered, but she had the feeling that soon she wouldn't be having to deal with any kitchen-science-labs at all.

She was half way through her meal when Sherlock came back. His steps were hesitant in a way that they never were, and he entered the kitchen cautiously, looking very obviously unsure of himself. The pair stared at each other, neither wanting to speak first when they didn't know what to say. After a few moments, Sherlock sat down across from her, putting them on a more equal level.

He cleared his throat awkwardly. "Did you sleep well?"

"I slept alright," she answered with a shrug. "A couple more nights of solid sleep would definitely be helpful, though."

He nodded and attempted to force a smile. "That's good; I'm glad you're feeling better." He paused for a moment and then knocked his knuckles against the table. "Well, I'll just leave you to it then." He stood up and walked out before Jo had the chance to say anything in reply. Jo sighed and looked down at the remainder of her meal, her appetite gone.

Moments later, Sherlock came back into the room with long strides. He stopped in front of the table, looking simultaneously reluctant and determined.

"Look," he said, clasping his hands in front of him. "I just have one question."

She nodded, trying to look as if that didn't make her as nervous as it did. "Alright. What is it?"

"You do realize that the LEF hurts innocent people." He asked, sounding genuinely upset. "Maybe not physically, but they still get hurt."

She sighed, knowing where the conversation was going but not wanting to hurry it in that direction. "Sometimes there is collateral damage."

"Collateral damage?" He asked, beginning to vibrate with anger as the veins in his neck bulged. "What about Lestrade?"

Jo clenched her fists, wishing that there was a way to get away from this conversation. "What happened with Lestrade was unfortunate — no one said that it wasn't."

"You knew what they did to him, and you still worked with them?" He pressed, narrowing his eyes. "How did you even know about that? It wasn't highly publicized."

She swallowed, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. "The police station bombing was the first project that I planned and led on my own. It was my decision to continue with the plan even after he reentered the building, and I was the one who made the phone call to tell him to evacuate."

Sherlock stared at her, his face darkening to the angriest she had ever seen him. "You almost cost him his career! How could you justify that?"

"He's a police officer working for a corrupt system," she answered, doing her best to keep her voice as emotionless as possible. "The theory was that he deserved what he got."

"Damn it, Jo!" He yelled, slamming his hands down on the table top, his cheek twitching with the repressed desire to shift. "He deserved it? Jo, when his wife died he almost lost his kids because he was suspected LEF!"

She didn't have a response to that so she just sat there quietly for a few seconds before he shook his head and looked away. "You know what, I can't be here anymore. I just, can't." He turned and stormed out, slamming every door between the kitchen and the street. Jo dropped her head into her hands, not even bothering to fight back the tears.

A few minutes later she heard the gentle steps of her landlady coming up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson didn't say anything upon entering the kitchen; she just started making tea, clicking her tongue at some of Sherlock's more gruesome experiments. When she finished, she set a mug of tea in front of her tenant and sat down across from her.

"I know that Sherlock can be intense," she began, obviously making an effort to be as soothing as possible. "But you shouldn't let him treat you like that."

Jo sighed, wiping at her face trying to pull herself together. "It's fine, really."

"Sweetheart, you're crying," she replied, reaching for Jo's hand. "I know that you care about him, and god knows you're better with him than anyone I've ever met, but that doesn't mean you have to let him walk all over you."

She shook her head, forcing a small smile. "Trust me, no one is walking over anyone else here, and I definitely had this one coming." Mrs. Hudson gave her a skeptical look and she huffed out a small laugh. "You know, most people just see me calling him on his problems; they don't realize that it goes both ways. And I deserved to be called on this one."

"If you say so," she agreed, still sounding a bit unconvinced. "Can I get you something?"

"No thanks," Jo answered, giving her landlady's hand a squeeze before pulling away. "I think I'm just going to take a shower. Thank you for coming to check on me." The women said their goodbyes, and, after making Jo promise to call her if she needed anything, Mrs. Hudson went back down to her own flat.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock didn't go back to the flat for two days. He spent some of that time working at Bart's, trying to find an experiment interesting enough to keep his mind off of home. He spent the whole first night at Bart's, but when Molly came back the next morning, she kicked him out. He spent the second day doing maintenance on his homeless network, taking care of the necessary upkeep that was required when dealing with a group of undisciplined civilians. He then went to Lestrade's for the night. He felt unbelievably guilty, sitting with Greg and his family and knowing the source of most of their pain for the hardest time of their lives.

He was able to distract himself well enough while the kids were awake, but eventually they went to bed and he was left alone with his thoughts. He retreated to the attic room that had always been his, sitting down on the edge of the bed and trying to think about anything else. He was having marginal success when there was a knock at the door and Lestrade entered, leaning against the wall just inside the room.

"So what's going on?" The DI asked, giving him the look that meant he wasn't going to go away until he got the answers he was looking for. "You've got that look that means something has gone horribly wrong. I would have thought you'd be happy to have Jo back."

Sherlock sighed, scrubbing his hands through his hair. "I am happy that she's home; it's just complicated."

"Of course it's complicated," he replied, rolling his eyes. "Life is always complicated, and if it's not, then you're not doing it right. What's suddenly become so complicated that you ran away from home?"

He glared. "I didn't run away from home; I'm just trying to reevaluate our situation after discovering some new information."

"What new information?" He asked, sounding interested. "Sherlock, you have to give me something to work with here; I can't read your mind."

"I don't know if you want to know," he answered, sounding miserable. "And I don't know if I want to tell you."

Lestrade nodded, heaving a sigh as he pushed himself away from the wall so that he could go sit beside the younger man. "Look, I know that there are things that you can't tell me — it's always been like that — so if that's what you're worried about, then don't be. I trust you, and if you decide that it's something I don't need to know, then it's something I don't need to know. So if that's what's got you looking so guilty, then don't worry about it; I trust you."

"But what if I don't know whether or not I should tell you," he said, looking over at the DI. "This is different from everything else I've ever kept from you."

"You're a smart man, Holmes," he replied, clapping him on the shoulder, "I have faith that you'll be able to figure it out." They sat in silence for a few moments before Lestrade squeezed his shoulder and stood up. "Well I'm off to bed. You're welcome to stay for breakfast if you're still around by then."

He nodded, forcing a small smile. "Thanks. Can you turn off the light as you leave?"

Sherlock was left alone in the dark. He sighed, levering himself off the bed and stripping down, shifting as soon as he could. He curled up on the bed and settled in for the night, tucking his nose under his tail. He closed his eyes and tried to think of nothing; he fell asleep a lot quicker than he had expected to.

\\\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock was woken up in the middle of the night when someone opened the door to his room. His ears perked up as he peered blearily into the darkness, trying to figure out who was there. After a few moments he was able to make out Luke's tiny form standing in the doorway.

He rose up, trying to project his interrogative across the room.

"I-I had a b-bad d-dream," Luke stammered, his nervousness radiating off of him in the darkness. "Alice, doesn't l-like it when I don't s-sleep in my own b-bed."

Sherlock huffed out through his nose, annoyed with Lestrade's wife, and motioned for the boy to come over.

Luke quickly shut the door behind him and hurried across the room. He climbed awkwardly up onto the bed and curled up beside the wolf, burying his face in his neck. The child was shaking, and the wolf had to force himself not to growl, infuriated at the idea that Luke would have suffered alone if the detective hadn't been there.

Luke fell asleep fairly quickly, but Sherlock laid awake, unable to get back to sleep. His mind inevitably turned to his current dilemma. He thought back to when he had first met the Lestrades. The family was barely holding itself together. Helen, Greg's first wife, had just died six months before Sherlock came on the scene. Greg was finally beginning to make some headway in his career, and he was nearing the end of a custody battle with the government.

One night, about a month after he had gotten out of rehab, Sherlock found Greg sitting at the table and looking like he was at the end of his rope. After a little bit of prompting, he got the older man to start talking. He told Sherlock that five years before, he had been his way quickly up through the ranks. He was working late one night, wanting to get some paperwork down. It was well past midnight, and he was alone in the building when his phone rang. Someone gave him a suspicious sounding tip about a body lying in a nearby alley. He wasn't very convinced, but he didn't want to risk it, so he went to check by himself. Shortly after he left, There was an explosion, destroying the building.

The LEF quickly claimed responsibility, and during the investigation, Lestrade's late minute phone call came out. The NOA decided that this was suspicious, and, for lack of any better leads, they began to focus on him. They were unable to find any other connection between the policeman and the LEF but were unwilling to completely let it go, instead putting him on a watch-list and stalling his career. When Helen died, Lestrade once again came back under inspection, this time for his fitness as a parent in light of his position on the LEF watch-list.

Following that late night conversation, Sherlock decided to attempt to repay the man for his help. He buried himself in Lestrade's case, focusing all of his intellect on proving his innocence. He didn't have access to the necessary files to address the initial case, so he instead focused on Greg's life, proving that there was no possible connection between him and the terrorist group. He succeeded within a month. It was also the first time that he realized that detective work was something he could make a life out of — something worth staying sober for.

Sherlock lied away for the rest of the night, finally focusing on the problem at hand. He tried to match up what he knew of Jo with the new information she had given him. He then tried to picture what his life would be like if she was no longer around. He knew that if he was unable to live with her past. Even knowing what she had done, this seemed somehow unacceptable, and by the time dawn broke, he knew what he had to do.

\\\\\\\\\\

Sherlock didn't make it back to Baker Street until a little after noon that day having got caught up in helping get everyone to school on time and then having to deal with the fallout from an experiment at Bart's. When he finally got home, he entered the flat as quietly as he could, feeling somewhat guilty for disappearing for two days. He entered the sitting room and stopped short, his blood turning to ice in his veins.

Boxes were scattered across the room. Jo's books had been taken off the shelves, and several of the other boxes were filled with her things from other parts of the house. A bunch of property advertisements were spread out on the coffee table, and Sherlock swore that he was going to be sick. He refused to acknowledge the meaning of what he was seeing even as his rational mind forced him out of denial.

Thanks everyone for reading, and I'm sorry that this took so long. Special thanks to my wonderful beta Painless_papercuts over on Ao3 for making this so much better than it otherwise would have been.

I'd love to hear feedback, either here or over at Tumblr where I'm the ravensdesk