A threat? Sherlock knew a threat when he saw one, but he also knew it wasn't John threatening him, that it was John who was in mortal danger right now, not himself. Giving Lestrade the slip was easy enough. His police protection was laughable at best. Escaping his brother, on the other hand, would be more difficult, but, despite all his little gadgets and resources, Sherlock knew the underbelly of London better than anyone else. Not only the shady parts of its population and businesses, but the literal underbelly as well. So, from the moment he jumped into the sewers, Sherlock knew only his cell phone would give him away when he resurfaced. He kept it though, because he still had use for it later, and simply turned it off for now.

"Tuttle," Sherlock greeted the grubby man hiding in the shadows of a building when he reemerged in a little known dead-end a few blocks to the south-east.

The old man was one of his most prized homeless connexions, because, for the the right sum of money, he could find you almost anything. Most everyone called him Turtle though, because of the large backpack he always carried on his back, but Sherlock had never been one to indulge in nicknames.

"What ye be needing today, boy?"

Everyone was a boy to old Tuttle, so Sherlock ignored the slight.

"A twin."

The man grunted and stroked his wispy beard as he looked him up and down.

"Dangerous?" Tuttle was a man of few words.

"Shouldn't be. I'll need him to pop up here and there around the city, be visible, turn my phone on and off, then disappear again."

"Decoy, uhm? Alright, but it'll cost ya."

Sherlock assured him money wasn't a problem and twenty minutes later, he was swapping clothes with Leo, a tall and lean hispanic with a mop of dark curls that would cover his tan and features enough to fool CCTVs and anyone who didn't know him too well as long as they were a few feet away. His phone's GPS would achieve to complete the illusion.

"Don't take any risks," Sherlock reminded the younger man, pulling the collar up on his coat, concealing even more of Leo's face. "There's a third player in this game I'm not sure about as of yet, so if you feel the net is closing in, just throw the phone away and lay low."

Leo nodded, took his wad of bills and walked off, doing an accurate imitation of Sherlock's own gait. His body-double was a quick study, so Sherlock committed his name to memory for possible future uses. He could always use a decoy.

Tuttle nodded when Sherlock pulled Leo's cap over his own head, satisfied with the exchange and his commission as intermediary. Returning to the sewers, Sherlock exited in the next alley over, following Leo who was, in turn, being followed was more difficult than Sherlock had anticipated, not only because Leo was quite good at it, but also because avoiding detection by all the cameras was no easy task. Thank God for Scotland Yard's incompetence which gave him some leeway.

However, when someone did catch up to Leo, much later that day, Sherlock knew at a glance it wasn't one of his brother's men, nor one of Lestrade's. Leo twisted out of the man's grip on his arm and ran for it, losing him easily when he entered a busy street, threw his phone in the open trunk of a delivery van and disappeared from view, following his instructions perfectly. Even Sherlock had no idea where he'd gone, but most of his attention was focused on the pursuant who stood in the street looking right and left with an angry scowl before taking out a phone and putting it to his ear. The exchange was short and the man looked grim when he hung up, scared even, which was very interesting. Not that many people inspired such unadulterated fear in their henchmen. After that, it was much easier following the man, right up to a place that looked so bland at first glance that Sherlock thought he'd be in and out in a heartbeat, hopefully with John in tow. However, after a careful examination of the small building, that idea was quickly dismissed. Despite its insipid appearance, the place was no more no less than a bunker, with reinforced doors, sealed windows, surveillance cameras, even motion detectors for crying out loud, and that was only the outside. On the bright side, his suspicion of the third player's identity solidified, and the only doubt that remained was how deeply involved that player was. Was he playing the game himself or had he set the board for someone else?

With one last glance at the small building, Sherlock turned away. Within a few minutes he had pilfered the phone from a man who was selling drugs at a street corner and doing such a poor job at being discreet, Sherlock had briefly wondered if he worked for the Met, then decided he didn't care. He had more urgent business to take care of.

"Who is this?" came Mycroft's crisp voice from the other end of the line.

"Who do you think?" Sherlock replied.

"Sherlock. You've been… busy."

"I have a gift for you."

"Really? I think the last time you bestowed such a dubious honour on me was when you were seven."

"Don't remind me," Sherlock growled, trying to erase that memory for the umpteenth time. "I found Moriarty."

Mycroft was silent.

"Are you certain?" he finally asked.

"No visual, but I'm 80% certain."

"That's a no, then. But this isn't about him, or you wouldn't have called me."

This time, it was Sherlock's turn to be silent.

"I gather John is there? You won't just walk away with him, you know."

"He's innocent."

"Or he's found himself a sponsor. Or they were accomplices all along." Sherlock gritted his teeth, waiting for Mycroft's decision. He had no other choice. If John was in there with Moriarty, he was in danger. Maybe he was being hurt this very second. Maybe he was- "Sherlock?"

"Yes?"

Mycroft sighed.

"I said, if you want me to intervene, Scotland Yard will cooperate too. If what we find there convicts John further, you will let justice follow its course and not intervene. Is that understood?"

Between a dead John and an imprisoned John, the choice was quickly made and Sherlock gave Mycroft the address and a meeting point further away. Surprisingly, Lestrade and his crew were the first to arrive, watching Sherlock approach with suspicion because he was wearing Leo's street clothes. Then, the penny dropped and Lestrade hurried towards him.

"Sherlock! I thought I told you to stay put. I suppose you're the anonymous tip-off?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Are you sure about this? I mean, I know you're sure we should storm this place, but… you realize I'm going to have to arrest John if I find him there?"

"It's better than the alternative," Sherlock replied.

Judging by the inspector's expression, he didn't understand what that alternative was and Sherlock didn't have the patience for another argument with the man. His brother's team joined them soon after and within minutes, they were knocking down the simili-bunker's doors. Lestrade tried to keep him away, but he might as well have tried to stop a bullet with his bare hands. The inside was less impressive than Sherlock had expected, and, despite its size, looked nothing more than any other ordinary townhouse. There were very few guards, and one of them, the one who had unwittingly led Sherlock there, was already dead, a butterfly knife planted through his heart. But those were only pawns. Where was John? Where was Moriarty?

"Sherlock! Wait up!" Greg called after him, a few feet behind.

"John! I need to find John!" he snapped, not slowing down, scanning one room after another.

Why didn't he understand John was in danger.

"I think he escaped, Sherlock. He must have had wind of our plans."

That had always been the risk when Mycroft had wanted to involve Scotland Yard. People and information were so easy to buy. But Sherlock continued, kicking open one door after another, until one resisted. Sherlock called Lestrade over and he had two of his men rammed down the door in a matter of seconds. All of them, Sherlock included, he was ashamed to say, stood there for a few seconds, just staring. John was sitting in a bed, slumped against the wall with his head bent forward, chin against his chest. Even from the doorway, Sherlock could see he was covered in small cuts and bandages, the white sheets stained red around him. But most horrifying was the large hunting knife jutting out of him at chest level, pinning him to the wall, and the message painted in blood smeared across the white wall next to him:

WITH LOVE,

YOUR VALENTINE

Too late. He'd been too late. He wasn't good enough, and now John… John was... He was gone. Because of him. This wasn't supposed to happen. John wasn't supposed to leave him. John couldn't be dead. He just couldn't-

"He's not dead!" Lestrade exclaimed.

Sherlock finally snapped back to the terrifying reality to see Lestrade had kneeled next to the bed, holding a trembling hand against John's pale neck. Checking the pulse… He had a pulse!

"Get the medics down here! Now!" Lestrade roared and one of his men transmitted the order on his radio while the other scrambled out, probably to show them the way.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Snap out of it. Help me!"

Sherlock stepped closer, unaware he was holding his breath before his lungs screamed for oxygen. Lestrade's hand hovered over the knife's handle.

"Don't!" Sherlock exclaimed, because the bleeding would be worse once that blade was taken out, more so because it was a model with a notched segment to the blade which would tear apart the skin and muscles on it's way out.

"Sherlock?" came the ghost of a whisper from the bed, sending Lestrade falling back on his arse. He cursed, then picked himself up and returned to John's side. They called John's name at the same time, which seemed to confuse him.

"Greg?"

"Yeah, I'm with Sherlock."

"Moriarty," John whispered.

"Yes, John. I think even these idiots got it now. Don't worry, he's gone," Sherlock told him, so glad he got another chance to talk to him, he had to bite his lip to shut up. He'd rather hear his friend's voice again instead.

John chuckled, sounding pained at doing so.

"Don't move," Greg ordered. "You've got a knife-"

"Missed," John mumbled, trying to pull on the handle jutting out of him. "Missed on purpose."

Before he could ask for an explanation, a couple of medics burst in with a stretcher. To their credit, they didn't even pause at the macabre display and set about their business, cutting John's clothes around the knife before conversing briefly between them and then John, seeming to come to an agreement. One of them held John back by the shoulders while the other pulled on the handle. A scream escaped John and the sound of it tore Sherlock's own heart right out. The paramedics' hands fluttered over him after that, putting pressure, bandages, a blanket, then they hauled him onto the stretcher and whisked him off before Sherlock had time to recover his breath.

"You'd better hurry if you want to go in the ambulance with him," Lestrade said, nudging him forward.

Sherlock nodded and ran off after them.

ooo

"How bad is it?" Lestrade asked once he'd caught up to him at the hospital.

"His reputation was smeared, he'll have nightmares for years and will be covered in scars for the rest of his life. What do you think Lestrade?" Sherlock snapped.

The inspector bit his lip, guilt oozing out of him. Honestly, he deserved a lot worse for having ever doubted John, but John considered the man a friend and not just a work acquaintance, so Sherlock relented. He didn't want to cause John any more grief than he already had.

"He'll be alright. John was correct: the knife wound - the last knife wound - pinned him to the wall by his clothes more than it did his flesh. It only clipped the skin and some muscle in the armpit according to the paramedics. It certainly does look like it was done on purpose."

"So Moriarty didn't want to kill John?" Lestrade asked.

"That doesn't sound like him. He would have put it right through his heart, like he did his man we found on the way down. It was still a close call though. Blood loss was at critical levels."

"Yeah, about that… Forensics think they found the place where John was…" Lestrade grimaced at whatever he was going to say, and Sherlock might be trying to play nice, for John's sake, but he wasn't going to let him be a coward about it.

"Lacerated? Mutilated? Tortured?"

Lestrade remained silent after that. Sherlock sighed. He'd tried, but John was probably going to lecture him about being nice again, which made him smile because he still had John to give him such useless lectures.

"Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock looked between the doctor and his clipboard, wondering which would give him answers first.

"How is John?" he demanded, looming over the smaller doctor to scare the answers out of him faster.

"Well enough. His injuries were numerous but not extensive. His psychological recovery however might-"

"Yes, yes. He'll go see another useless therapist, I'm sure."

"Sherlock!" Lestrade exclaimed, appalled.

"Uh…" the doctor said, unsure. "He's asked to see you and an inspector Lestrade if he was there?"

The doctor looked to Lestrade who nodded. "We don't usually allow such a visit this soon, but given the circumstances-"

The doctor shut up at Sherlock's impatient huff and gave them directions to a room further down the corridor.

"Hey," John said as soon as they came in.

He had an adorable dopey smile and made an awkward wave with his right hand.

"You're drugged up to the gills, aren't you?" Sherlock asked, sitting on his bed on his less injured side.

"Yep. High as a kite. Good stuff."

"I'm… err… glad to hear that?" Lestrade offered. "You wanted to see me too? I can wait for a statement, especially if you're stoned."

"You're an arse," John told him, still smiling, which took the edge off the words.

Lestrade was looking at his feet and rubbed the back of his neck.

"Yeah, I- Listen, I'm really sorry, John. I should have trusted you more."

"No, not that," John snorted. "Well, yeah, that too. But you let this idiot get into trouble again."

He pointed at Sherlock who'd been glaring at Lestrade, wishing he'd just leave so he could finally have John all to himself.

"There's no stopping Sherlock, you know that," Lestrade chided, approaching the bed but not taking the empty chair next to his bed. Sherlock glared at him harder, daring him to try and overstay his welcome. "I certainly didn't call him in. Conflict of interest, you know?"

"Yeah, I know. Harry called him. Why did she call you?" John asked, turning to Sherlock because he still didn't know how those two had suddenly come into contact.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked. No one was privy to that information.

"Cameras," John said slowly with a far-away look, as if he was imparting great wisdom. He really was on the good stuff. "Cameras everywhere. Oh yeah! There's one in our living room!" Sherlock cursed. "And your office!" he told Lestrade who cursed too. "Moriarty showed me everything… but… well, Seb said I pissed him off."

Sherlock and Lestrade exchanged a glance.

"Seb?"

"He's the Valentine Killer. The real one. Well, sort of. Moriarty said he didn't like to get his hands dirty, but he lied," John said while pulling at the largest bandage on his left forearm.

Sherlock stopped him, catching his hand and keeping it enveloped in his own. John stared at their joined hands so long, Sherlock almost let it go. Lestrade cleared his throat.

"Can you tell me anything else about this Seb?"

"He said he'd kill me if Moriarty asked him to, but he didn't. Moriarty told him to, and he didn't," John frowned, his dopey expression disappearing for the first time. "I'm tired."

"Right," Lestrade said. "Of course. We'll just-"

"I'm not leaving," Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade glanced at their linked hands once more and nodded, promising to come back the next day.

"Finally," Sherlock muttered. "Thought he'd never leave."

"Be nice," John tutted, tugging on Sherlock's hand. Then again, more insistently.

Sherlock hesitated but lied down in the small space next to John, doing his best not to touch him because he was still wearing Leo's clothes and John was covered in so many cuts. But John smiled, content, before he scrunched up his nose.

"You smell."

"Part of the disguise," Sherlock replied, earning himself a chuckle. "Go to sleep, John. You're safe. I'll keep my eyes on you. I promise."

ooo

The next day, Sherlock only accepted to leave John's side when Mrs Hudson came to visit with a change of clothes for the both of them. He was glad to shed his Leo-skin at last. He'd gotten used to the smell and inferior cloth quality, but he felt like he was contaminating John and didn't dare touch him more than necessary, which wasn't much. When he returned, Mrs Hudson was still fussing over John, bad-mouthing both the press and the police and telling him she never believed a word of their nonsense. Sherlock reclaimed his spot on John's bed since Mrs Hudson was in the only chair and they spent a couple of hours distracting John: Mrs Hudson with gossip from Baker Street and Sherlock with deductions about the hospital staff and patients. One of them was dating two of the nurses and almost got caught when his wife came to visit him. Mrs Hudson asked for his room number which didn't bode well for the man.

When Lestrade arrived, Mrs Hudson took her cue and left but not before telling Lestrade exactly what she thought of Scotland Yard and it's no good brutes, which amused John to no end. He always got a kick out of Mrs Hudson being a tough old lady. Lestrade sighed when she left, stomping heavily to the vacated chair where he slumped.

"I've never gotten so chewed out by so many people my entire life. I swear even the coffee-maker at the station broke just to spite me."

"You've pulled an all-nighter?" John asked.

"Pretty much had to," Lestrade confessed. "Moriarty is nowhere to be found, of course. So… are you ready for this? You were a bit out of it yesterday."

John nodded, looked warily at the door where a forensic officer was waiting with a camera.

"Is that really necessary?" John asked.

"It's to document the case, so yeah, sorry," Lestrade said.

"I can dispose of them if you want," Sherlock offered, happy at the prospect. He'd have those two men in tears in a matter of minutes, and he would feel better for it.

"No, no. It's okay, I understand."

"We'll leave," Lestrade said, getting up and looking pointedly at Sherlock.

"No!" John exclaimed, his hands reaching for Sherlock, gripping his arm.

He glanced at the officer at the door, then at Sherlock.

"I'll need help getting this damn blouse off, I can't lift my left arm that way with the stitches," John said. "I- It's okay, it's nothing you guys haven't seen before."

Lestrade frowned but motioned his subordinate in, thankfully staying in the back of the room to give them space.

"I really can throw them out," Sherlock told John in a whisper, leaning over him once he had relinquished his bruising grip to help him untie the back of the blouse.

"No. Anything that helps disculpe me, the faster, the better. You know how the press twists and turns all the time. I'm innocent now, but wait till they get bored, you'll have wild theories flying around. They'll be saying I stabbed myself to throw off suspicion or some such nonsense."

Sherlock snorted but he couldn't deny the likelihood of that. His fingers trembled as he slid the flimsy blouse off John's shoulders, glad the wounds only covered the top half of his front body so he had that little dignity left. But what he had to show… Christ… it made Sherlock's blood boil. So many angry red lines crisscrossing his arms, his chest, his neck and face while the rest of him was practically unmarred. John's mouth was set in a rigid line and he gave the officer the get-on-with-it look that had him scurrying forward with his camera and snapping shot after shot, the flash blinding them all for an instant with every new one. Finally, once the officer was satisfied, he nodded his thanks to John and left without a word.

Sherlock immediately helped John back in the blouse, reaching behind him once more to tie it at the back for him. John looked up as he did, their eyes meeting, and suddenly, he broke down, right there in his arms, silent sobs wracking his body as he tried to keep them in. Sherlock threw Lestrade a poisonous look and he scurried away, closing the door behind him but lurking there, standing guard.

"It's okay, John. It's just the two of us now," Sherlock whispered, holding him as tight as he dared. "You can let go now. No one will know."

John did, burrowing his face into his shirt and holding on as if his life depended on it. The trust he put in him in that instant almost threatened to overwhelm him too, but Sherlock had to stay strong for John, if nothing else. However, he vowed to destroy Moriarty, utterly and completely, until all that remained of him was a vague urban legend no one believed in. Eventually, John's fists on his shirt loosened and he calmed down enough that Sherlock could ease him back in the pillows.

A moment later, a knock on the door announced Lestrade's entrance.

"I can come back later, if you'd rather."

"Yes," Sherlock said just as John said "No." then added: "I'd rather get it over with."

Lestrade had his puppy dog look again and seemed on the verge to apologize yet again, so Sherlock pointed at the chair. John began his tale without prompting, starting from the day they'd finished with the Ruggieri case, but he then had to skip over the first few days. He didn't even know he'd assaulted police officers, was quite horrified by the news in fact. Lestrade waved off his concern over facing charges for that, saying John could probably get away with robbing a bank in broad daylight right now.

"So the first thing I really remember is when I woke up in Nightvale one night, and then when you visited, Greg," John explained. "Although I have no idea when either of those happened. I don't even know what day today is. Anyway…"

John continued, his voice sounding far too monotone after what he'd gone through. He had a far off look and didn't see the way Greg paled, or how Sherlock was twisting his blanket in his hands with every new piece of information, shedding light on the way he'd been used and abused, how they'd all been played like witless puppets for the criminal mastermind's amusement.

"Wait, wait, wait," Greg said. "You're saying the Valentine Killer was the nurse at Nightvale who snatched you out of there?"

John nodded.

"Yeah, you met him. Both of you. He's the one who took you to my room, he had a camera and microphone on him. I saw you there."

John waited them out, predicting correctly both Sherlock's quiet, simmering anger and Lestrade's swearing down to the last curse, as well as his urgent call to his subordinates to find images of the man in question.

"Do you know anything else about him that could help us apprehend him? Having someone run around the city with a triple homicide count is not exactly helping our case with the public"

John bit his lip then answered by the negative. Sherlock knew he was lying, it was obvious, but Lestrade just nodded, taking his word for granted. Of course, he'd do that now that John was actually lying, not before when he was telling the truth. Sherlock didn't call John out on it, but he'd get answers when Lestrade left.

"But why did 'Seb' help you after Moriarty assaulted you, and then when he was ordered to dispose of you? That doesn't make any sense."

"Reverse Stockholm Syndrome?" John asked uncertainly. "I think Moriarty should be the one called the Valentine Killer in the end. I know it was Seb who did it, but… he's only the tool. Moriarty is the one who planned everything and gave the orders. Maybe that's why Seb helped me? I don't know… the whole situation seems so unreal now."

"Jesus, that guy is sick. Staying close to you after what he did," Lestrade muttered with a shake of his head.

"Oh!" John exclaimed as if he'd just remembered he needed to buy milk. "That's right. About that… Who's the third victim? You said there had been a third when you visited, but you never got around to-."

Lestrade blanched again, opened his mouth, closed it without a word making its way out. Even Sherlock was momentarily speechless.

"What?" John asked.

"You really don't know?" Sherlock asked when he'd gotten his vocal chords back under control. "I thought Moriarty would have-"

"Who is it?" John demanded, more sharply this time.

Lestrade was still doing the impression of a fish out of water, but he was now looking at him with pleading eyes, apparently not able to be the one to deal John another blow. Sherlock braced himself for John's reaction, unsure of what to expect since his friend had never even spoken of his father before. Harry said there was no love lost there, but he knew by experience familial bonds could be complicated.

"It was you father, John."

The whole room was so still and quiet, it might as well have been empty. Only John's breathing sounded harsh and erratic while he and Lestrade seemed to have stopped breathing altogether.

"My mother? Harry?" John asked.

"They're safe," Lestrade replied. "Under police protection."

John grimaced.

"They're not targets, John. They'll be safe," Sherlock corrected, receiving a nod of thanks in return.

John became quiet after that and Lestrade had the good grace to stop with his inane questions and awkwardly thanked John, reminding him he'd need to come by the station to sign papers when he was let out of the hospital, which was to be the very next day since his wounds had been numerous but none too serious.

Sherlock waited to see if John would tell him what he was hiding about Seb of his own accord, but his friend was resolutely ignoring him, probably afraid Sherlock would read the truth right off his face. Sherlock had told John time and again that wasn't how it worked, it wasn't magic, but John always thought remaining silent and not meeting his eyes was the best way not to spill the beans.

"I know," Sherlock said.

"Know what?"

"You know more about this 'Seb' than what you told Lestrade. You're protecting him. However, I can't begin to imagine why."

John bit his lip, didn't look at him, so Sherlock took a deep breath and reached for John's hand. He had liked holding it yesterday, marvelling at the simple yet direct connection it offered, but yesterday he'd had an excuse to do so, and the probability John would be too stoned to remember the next day or even notice he had taken such liberties in the first place. This time, however, it was a risk which invited scorn and rejection. After a few thunderous, rib-cracking heartbeats, John did not snatch his hand away. On the contrary, he gave his hand a squeeze, communicating without words, as clear as day: I need you, and don't leave me.

"You should know I won't judge you, whatever your reasons. God knows I have no right to. I just thought you should tell someone, and I think I'm the only person you can tell."

"I guess," John replied, then sighed. "He protected me."

"The first aid?" Sherlock asked, his eyes roving over the multitude of cuts when nothing more was forthcoming, because that was already old news. Even Lestrade knew about that much.

"Yeah, but not only that. Seb… He lied to Moriarty so he'd leave me alone, and then he betrayed him by deliberately missing with his knife. The wound is a scratch, it's laughable, and Seb is a fucking expert. He saved me, Sherlock, three times over. Four even. I bet that was him in the warehouse on the Ruggieri case. But this," John said indicating the place he'd been stabbed to the wall. "This, he had to betray Moriarty for. That's like me betraying you... I could never… not for me, not for anyone… I'm afraid Moriarty will kill Seb for what he did, or that Seb will not be able to live with himself for his betrayal. He doesn't deserve that… He…"

Sherlock couldn't keep the incredulousness from his face.

"No, I know what he did, don't get me wrong, but...ah, I don't know, I'm not sure I understand it myself. We're very much alike, him and me. I was just lucky to find you to pick up the pieces of me, whereas he found Moriarty."

Oh. Well, that was unexpected. So Moriarty's right hand man had betrayed him for John because they had bonded somehow. Moriarty wasn't going to like that. Not. One. Bit. And there would be hell to pay. And yet, John still called himself lucky to have met him, Sherlock Holmes, self-proclaimed consulting detective, despite all he'd gone through because of him. By simple association, his enemies had become John's enemies. Was that a fair exchange for his friendship? Surely he wasn't worth so much effort, and Sherlock couldn't ask for such a sacrifice. But… he'd always been so selfish, Mycroft always said so, and Sherlock knew he couldn't live without John either, not now that he knew what it was like to have such a companion always at his side. The last few days without him had been proof enough of that.

"There's no such thing as luck, John. Only chain of circumstances that result in a desirable outcome. There's no…" Sherlock waggled his fingers dismissively. "Higher forces at work."

Sherlock congratulated himself when John chuckled, considered his diversion a success. And everyone said he had no tact.

"I dunno," John said. "Remember that time our suspect got shit on by a pigeon just as he was about to shoot you? Or when Lestrade found that secret room because he tripped on the lever? And that one time the crucial clue to the case literally fell into our hands?"

"Nobody ever looks up," Sherlock said with a fond smile and they argued for the rest of the day about how much luck came into play in their cases until John drifted off, holding tight to Sherlock's hands even as he slept.

ooo

"Everyone's staring," John muttered, standing closer to Sherlock's side than he usually would, as if he could hide him from the world.

"Just ignore them," Sherlock replied quietly, guiding him towards Lestrade's office with a hand to his back.

He didn't dare touch his arms, not with all the cuts hidden beneath his layers of clothes. If John could have gotten away with it, he would have worn a balaclava to hide the rest of him too, which was ridiculous. He had nothing to be ashamed of.

"I wish it was that easy," John muttered. "Jesus, is that guy actually pointing his finger at me?"

Sherlock's head snapped around until he found the culprit and stared daggers at the him, satisfied when the moron suddenly found he had something better to do somewhere far, far away.

The paperwork they'd come for was quickly taken care of once they met up with Lestrade in his office, but it would have been too simple if it had ended there. Lestrade opened a file on his desk and took out a couple of pictures.

"This one, we got from Nightvale's employee files. The rest of the info there was a load of bullshit, but even the ID picture is not how I remember the bloke."

John stared at it, shook his head. Lestrade showed him the second.

"Looks like he was pretty good at avoiding showing his face on security footage. This is the best we have. Can you confirm this is the nurse who kidnapped you?"

"Kidnapping is it now?" Sherlock mocked.

The picture was grainy and Seb's head was tilted at an angle that hid the bottom half of his face. Sherlock could recognize him despite it though, and John nodded without comment. Apparently, he was still set on protecting the man despite what he'd done. Sherlock didn't understand it, but it wouldn't be the first time human emotions were as indecipherable to him as the solar system, so he would just trust John on this.

ooo

It was a week later and Lestrade had made absolutely no progress in finding Seb or Moriarty, not that Sherlock was surprised. The press was finally beginning to get tired with hounding John to get a word out of him other than "Piss off!" and they were now gleefully smearing the reputation of a minister or other after some disturbing pictures of him wearing a nazi costume had been leaked.

John had nightmares, more so than before, but he refused to tell him about them, just as he refused to talk to his therapist about what he'd gone through, and Sherlock had even nagged him about that. The way he closed himself off from everybody, him included, was beginning to worry him, more so when he discovered most of the mirrors in the flat had vanished or been covered, but he didn't know what to do other than be himself and keep John entertained as much as possible. Blowing up a pot through the ceiling like a rocket while attempting to cook for John had been a great success in that aspect. John had been very impressed at the improbability of it, then livid at the mess, and finally apologetic when Mrs Hudson came wandering upstairs inquiring about the noise.

On the whole, it was almost like before, but John was always on edge and Sherlock found himself reaching for his hand more and more and simply holding it because it soothed John, just as much as it soothed him. They didn't comment on it, it had just become a habit of sorts, like the way he would always hold the cab door open for John or how John would always leave a sticky note on his chair when he went out. The list was long, got longer with time and this was just one more bullet point on that list.

"Boys?" came Mrs Hudson's wobbly voice from the entrance. Was she getting a cold?

John had already turned to check on her and Sherlock would have had to be blind to miss the way his whole body stiffened.

"You have a visitor," she added, sounding like she was about to cry.

Slow motion seemed to grip Sherlock as he swiveled around towards the door, taking in Mrs Hudson's pale face and her bony hands twisting knots in her cardigan, then following the barrel of the gun pressed against the back of her head to the infamous Seb and finally, standing behind them, grinning madly, was Moriarty.

How? How was this possible? Where were his brother's men? Where were Lestrade's? How could two of England's most wanted just waltz into Baker Street?

"Aww, isn't that cute? It looks like the two of you are having brain aneurism. That would be a stupid way to die, Johnny boy, especially after your miraculous recoveries of late."

The tension strumming through John seemed to reach breaking point so Sherlock finally gathered his wits enough to place himself in front of his friend, shifting slowly so as not to set Moriarty's guard dog off.

"What do you want?" he managed to ask through gritted teeth.

"Well, a thank you would be nice for a start."

Sherlock took a step forward, ready to punch that satisfied smirk right off his face, but a pained cry from Mrs Hudson as well as John's grip on his shirt held him back.

"Why?" he snapped instead.

He was sure he didn't want to know the answer to that, but he had to buy time for Mycroft or Lestrade to realize what was going on and intervene.

"For distracting the press of course, take the heat off poor Johnny boy. Those pictures weren't cheap to obtain, you know."

Sherlock scowled, repositioning himself to hide John as much as possible, wishing for once that he was bulkier to shield him better.

"And distracting all those pesky guards outside. You're welcome."

Distracting? The police was easy enough to distract, granted, but how had he distracted Mycroft? It had to be something huge, a national crisis, for him to let his eyes turn elsewhere for even just a moment when Moriarty's trail was still hot. Unless…

"Misinformation is a great tool," Moriarty whispered as if sharing an invaluable secret. "Feed contradictory information to two allies and they go round and round in circles chasing each other." He laughed. "So I just popped in for a social call. After all, our pets got on so well together," he spat with a steely glare at his right-hand man. "That I thought we should have a play-date."

"You're mad," Sherlock deadpanned.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty asked and walked closer to him.

Sherlock couldn't budge, the squeak from Mrs Hudson warning enough that if he tried anything, Seb would be taking swift action. Moriarty peaked behind him at John who took a step back, letting go of his shirt.

"Don't hide, pet. I wanted to see my handiwork," he struck a pose as if admiring a rare painting. "It suits you. Maybe I should do the same to Seb so you two could be a matching pair. What do you think?"

John didn't answer, his stance combative but his eyes wide with fear. Moriarty huffed.

"Well, it looks like I finally broke you. About time. Tell me, Johnny boy, do you think of me every time you see these?" he asked, tracing one of his scars just short of actually touching him, then he leaned closer and whispered: "I bet Sherlock thinks of me too when he sees them. All. The. Time. Because he can't cover you the way you covered those mirrors."

John flinched, making Moriarty laugh, but that stopped abruptly when a beep came from his pocket, his mirth morphing into a pout.

"Time up! You two have been a great distraction, but duty calls. Tchao!"

They all stood frozen on the spot while Moriarty retreated to the door, whistling one of those stupid Christmas Carols, followed closely by Seb, his gun now pointed at Sherlock because he was the most likely to act in this situation. In fact he had his phone out as soon as they'd disappeared through the flat's door, dialing Mycroft. Then everything happened at once, so fast there was not time to think, only react.

"Mycroft," he snapped as soon as he picked up so he wouldn't start with one of his smarmy remarks. "Moriarty is-"

BANG

Sherlock froze at the unexpected sound of a gunshot downstairs, and then another.

BANG

He turned around to see John had pushed Mrs Hudson to cover, then realized his phone was shouting his name.

"Sherlock! Sherlock, what's going on? Sherlock!"

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered in his phone as he edged towards the door. "Moriarty was here, he left but then-"

Someone was running up the stairs. Sherlock flattened himself to the wall, ready to tackle the intruder. His arm shot out just in time, catching someone's chest and sending them flat on the floor. It was Lestrade, blinking up at him. Sherlock apologized and helped him up, although he wanted to laugh a little at his bewildered expression.

"You guys alright, then?" he asked, after Sherlock had pulled him up.

Sherlock nodded.

"We weren't expecting you. What happened down there?" Sherlock asked with a wave of his hand at the staircase.

"Well I thought the minister's disappearance was a bit too well-timed, and when I learned the team I'd assigned to Baker Street had been pulled away too…" he shrugged. "Then I'd just let myself in when that bloody psychopath walked down. I had to take cover and they escaped, sorry."

"Don't be sorry, detective inspector," Sherlock said happily and loudly enough for Mycroft to hear through the phone. "You just bested my brother and that might just be a first."

Lestrade blushed and went over to John and Mrs Hudson to check they really were okay because apparently, his definition of alright was not good enough. Sherlock took advantage of the time to hold the phone to his ear again and tease Mycroft until he finally hung up of his own accord. Petty, yes, but oh so amusing and a once in a lifetime opportunity.

The four of them decided to stick together that night, ordering italian and watching anything but the news on the telly. When it was only the two of them again, John clung to his hand.

"He's going to come back," John said with a flat voice.

It wasn't a question. John knew he would, but maybe he hoped Sherlock could convince him otherwise. Sherlock was good at lying, true, but terrible at lying to John, so he nodded, pained at John's resigned expression.

"At Christmas, I believe," Sherlock added.

John squeezed his hand in answer: stay with me. And Sherlock always would.