Author's Note: I'm very, very sorry for the lateness of this chapter.

Thanks for reading and please, review!

Note: Italics are past memories.

John felt the adrenaline running through his veins. He felt himself back in Afghanistan. There was a life at the stakes.

Sherlock was in danger.

And John was going to save him.

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock!" John looked at his brother with worried eyes. "Mummy will kill you!"

"Mummy doesn't need to know."

"But -"

"It's for an experiment!" snapped Sherlock, cutting the best red roses from the garden. Those were their mother's favourite roses, in fact, Mrs Holmes loved those roses with all her heart - she had planted them and she had always taken care of them.

John rolled his blue eyes. The thirteen year old boy sighed tiredly and patted Sherlock's back. "Sherlock, mummy will get mad."

"I don't care."

"Really? 'cos last time she caught you cutting her roses she didn't let you use your lab for a week," said John, jokingly. "And you cried."

"I did not do such thing. Babies cry," said Sherlock, turning to his brother.

"Crying is not a bad thing."

"It's stupid! Stupid people cry!"

John swallowed hard. He followed his brother to the lab - that old greenhouse that had been remodeled so Sherlock would have his own space and looked how Sherlock started pulling at the petals.

Sherlock raised his gaze. "I didn't mean it."

"Hmm?"

"What I said before. I didn't mean it."

John faked a smile.

Just a few days ago Sherlock caught John crying in his room alone. It was a dark, cold night when he found John curled on bed, crying, remembering his biological parents.

"It's okay," replied John.

"You're not stupid."

"Mummy will definitely kill you," said John, changing the subject when both boys saw their parent's car parked afar from them. "What will she do now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Maybe she won't get me a skull this Christmas."

"So, the shooter. No sign?"

Lestrade nodded. "Cleared off before we got here. But a guy like that would have had enemies, I suppose. One of them could have been following him but... we've got nothing to go on."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that."

The D.I. rolled his eyes and stared at the young detective in front of him. "Okay."

"The bullet they just dug out of the wall's from a hand gun. Kill shot over that distance from that kind of a weapon – that's a crack shot you're looking for, but not just a marksman: a fighter. His hands couldn't have shaken at all, so clearly he's acclimatised to violence. He didn't fire until I was in immediate danger, though, so strong moral principle. You're looking for a man probably with a history of military service..."

Sherlock's eyes danced on John's figure standing just a feet from him.

"And nerves of steel..."

John was the shooter.

John had saved him.

"Actually, do you know what? Ignore me."

Lestrade frowned. "Sorry?"

"Ignore all of that. It's just the, err, the shock talking..."

"Where're you going?"

"I just need to talk about the... the rent," snapped Sherlock and started to walk away from the ambulance where he had been taken to before, soon afterwards the police arrived to the crime scene.

"But I've still got questions for you!"

Sherlock just ignored him and got rid of that hideous orange blanket and tossed it into a police car.

"Sergeant Donovan's just been explaining everything, the two pills. Been a dreadful business, hasn't it? Dreadful," explained John, with both hands behind his back.

To John's surprise, Sherlock smiled at him widely.

John had missed that smile for so long. He had longed for that smile for so many years... for so much time.

"Good shot."

"Yes," whispered John. "Yes. Must have been, through that window."

"Well, you'd know."

John shot Sherlock a fake confused look and Sherlock curled his lips upwards. "Need to get the powder burns out of your fingers. I don't suppose you'd serve time for this, but let's avoid the court case."

John couldn't help but smile only a little.

"Are you all right?"

John nodded. "Yes, of course. I'm all right."

"Well, you have just killed a man."

'I would do it again. For you' John wanted to say.

But he did not say it.

"Yes. It's true, isn't it?" replied John. "But he wasn't a very nice man."

"No. No, he wasn't really, was he?"

"And frankly a bloody awful cabbie."

Sherlock chuckled and started leading the way. Both walked side by side for a few moments in silence, only enjoying each other's company and looking at the police men working around them.

"That's true. He was a bad cabbie. Should have seen the route he took to get us here," added Sherlock and smiled.

John giggled.

"Stop! Stop, we can't giggle, it's a crime scene!"

Sherlock nodded just a bit. "You're the one who shot him. Don't blame me."

"Keep your voice down!"

"John? John, are you crying?"

Sherlock got close to his brother. John was curled on his bed, with his back to the door and his face to the wall. It was dark, but Sherlock could notice there were tears rolling down John's face.

"I'm okay."

Sherlock sat next to him. "Why are you crying?"

"It's nothing," replied John, his voice was hoarse. "I'm fine."

Sherlock knew.

"Is it because of your parents?"

John didn't look at his brother. He only stared at the ceiling above and nodded softly. "I miss them."

"I don't know what to say, John," admitted Sherlock. "I'm sorry."

"It's nothing."

Sherlock lay next to John and took his hand. "Mummy and father love you."

It was a single sentence said to make John feel better. But Sherlock meant it. Their parents loved John. Since the very first day they had introduced John as their 'son' but not because they had adopted him and John had their name, legally speaking. But because they loved John as if he had always been their real, biological son.

Mr and Mrs Holmes loved their three children, equally.

But they had something for John.

And for Sherlock as well.

It was lovely for Mrs Holmes to raise two children of the same age. They were so different. Physically speaking, Sherlock was taller, slender, he had dark curls and gray eyes and his skin was very pale while John was shorter than his brother, he had round cheeks and sandy straight hair and blue eyes.

Sherlock liked science and chemistry. John liked literature and nature.

Sherlock was the boy who did things, who was naughty, who liked to run and cut his mother's roses just to use them for experiments.

John was the boy who was always behind Sherlock reminding him what he was doing was a lot not good and that their mother was going to be very upset.

And yet both were very alike.

As if they had always been brothers.

"You were going take that damned pill, weren't you?"

Sherlock curled his lips upwards. "Of course I wasn't. I was binding my time. Knew you'd turn up."

"No you didn't. It's how you get your kicks, isn't it? You risk your life yo prove you're clever," said John, faking he didn't know it.

John was well aware of Sherlock's love for science, mystery, adrenaline.

"Why would I do that?"

"Because you're an idiot."

It had been years, but years since John had called Sherlock 'and idiot' and yet, there was Sherlock smiling at him, just like he used to do.

"Sherlock, why did you cut my roses?"

Both John and Sherlock were standing in front of their mother, both side by side. Across them was Mrs Holmes, with both hands on her hips, trying to make herself look angry - and indeed she was.

"It was for an experiment," admitted Sherlock, heartily.

Mrs Holmes closed her eyes and sighed tiredly. "Sherlock, you could have asked, darling."

"You wouldn't have let me!"

"Watch your tone, young boy!"

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. "Sherlock..."

Little Sherlock of thirteen years old knew what his brother John meant.

Sherlock looked into his mother's eyes and pouted just slightly before apologising. "I'm sorry, mummy."

Mrs Holmes' angry expression vanished in the air when she smiled to her children and patted their heads. "Promise me you will not do such thing again."

"I promise," said Sherlock.

Once they were allowed to go back to their experiments, John couldn't help but laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"You."

Sherlock looked at John expectantly waiting for an answer.

John smiled. "You're an idiot."

"Dinner?"

John nodded. "Starving."

"There's a good Chinese stays open 'till two. You can always tell a good Chinese by examining the bottom third of the door handle -"

"Sherlock, that's him," whispered John cutting Sherlock off and looking at the tall man with an umbrella in his hand. "That's the man I was talking to you about."

Deep inside, John was praying to God. He needed Sherlock to see he and Mycroft had nothing to do with each other. In fact, John had to lie and he had to become an actor - a good one.

Sherlock couldn't know who he was.

To Sherlock John was going to be John Watson. Because John Holmes died years ago.

"I know exactly who that is."

Mycroft cleared his throat and looked at his brother - at Sherlock. "So, another case cracked. How very public spirited... though that's never really your motivation, isn't it?"

"What are you doing here?"

"As ever, I'm concerned about you."

Sherlock nodded sarcastically. "Yes, I've been hearing about your 'concern'."

"Always so aggressive. Did it never occur to you and I belong on the same side?"

"Oddly enough, no."

Mycroft curled his lips upwards. "We have more in common than you like to believe. This petty feud between us is simply childish. People will suffer... and you know how it did always upset Mummy."

John, who so far had only looked at his brothers 'argued', as they used to do, had managed to stay calm and fake a very surprised and confused look. But when Mycroft mentioned 'Mummy', his heart beat faster within his chest.

God, he really missed her.

John missed his mother.

John was sitting next to her in his parent's bed. Tears were falling down his cheeks and he felt like a five year old boy again. He felt the pain within his chest, the same pain he felt when he woke up one morning in an orphanage after his parents death. Elizabeth smiled at him, and hugged him. It wasn't the same hugs she used to give to him, the ones he felt like she was going to break his ribs. It was a weak hug. She was dying.

"Promise me you'll back and you'll have a lovely family. Take care of Richard, he's becoming a very stubborn man, you know."

John laughed a bit, and Elizabeth stroked his hand. He was wearing the jumper she knitted for him. Under her touch it felt soft and warm. She could feel the warmness of his son through it.

"Take care of Sherlock, dear. I know he loves Mycroft, no matter how much he keeps denying it. But we both know how much he loves you. You two are brothers. Always remember that, son of mine."

"Yes, Mummy."

"It wasn't me that upset her, Mycroft!" snapped Sherlock, angrily.

John had to pretend.

"No, no, wait. Mummy? Who's 'Mummy'?"

"Mother," corrected Sherlock. "Our mother. This is my brother, Mycroft. Putting on weight again?"

Mycroft bit his lower lip. "Losing it, in fact."

"He's your brother?" asked John, again, faking a rather confused tone.

"Of course he's my brother."

"So he's not..." John felt their brother's gaze on him. "I dunno. Criminal mastermind?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Close enough."

"For goodness' sake. I occupy a minor position in the British government."

"He is the British government, when he's not too busy being the British Secret Service or the CIA on a freelance basis. Good evening, Mycroft. Try not to start a war before I get home. You know what it does for the traffic."

As soon as Sherlock was out of earshot, John turned to his older brother. "Stop this childish thing."

"Sherlock can't know," whispered Mycroft ignoring John's previous words.

John turned around and ran to keep on Sherlock's long legs.

"I can always predict the fortune cookies."

"No, you can't."

"Almost can. You did get shot, though."

John frowned. "Sorry?"

"In Afghanistan. There was an actual wound."

'I wish I could forget it' thought John.

But he didn't say it.

"Oh yeah. Shoulder."

Sherlock looked at him. "Shoulder! I thought so."

"No you didn't."

"The left one."

John chuckled. "Lucky guess."

"I never guess."

"Yes you do," said John and laughed.

To John's surprise, Sherlock was actually smiling. Widely smiling.

"What are you so happy about?"

"Moriarty."

"What's Moriarty?"

Sherlock clapped his hands together and turned to who he didn't know was his brother. "I have absolutely no idea!"

From afar, Mycroft was staring at them when he managed a tiny smile.

"Interesting, that fellow soldier. He could be the making of my brother, or make him worse than ever. Either way, we'd better upgrade their surveillance status. Grade Three Active."

His young assistant turned to his employer confused. "Sorry, sir. Whose status?"

"Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson."

Next chapter: John's first days living with Sherlock Holmes lead him to deliberate, spontaneous and unwanted memories.