John didn't wake up that night. He was back in his own room now, in his own bed that didn't smell like he was being surrounded by Sherlock. Not that is was unpleasant, on the contrary, but it wasn't conducive to sleep. Besides, he could get up a ruddy flight of stairs now, he wasn't as tired as he'd been and his knees were just that bit little better. But somehow, he still woke up to Sherlock's face hovering over him in the morning. He was pleasantly surprised, but surprised nonetheless.

"Whu?" was as eloquent as he could be expected to be under the circumstances.

"So?" Sherlock urged, as if his question was so obvious it didn't even need to be put into a full sentence..

John blinked the sleep out of his eyes, yawned and considered turning over to sleep some more. He felt like he hadn't slept this deeply in forever... That thought was enough to startle him completely into wakefulness.

"Fuck!" It still wasn't very eloquent but it resumed perfectly his feelings at that moment. "What in the blazes did you do, Sherlock?"

Sherlock frowned. He actually looked affronted.

"The Dream! You broke The Dream!" John exclaimed.

Panic started to settle in as he understood it meant he wouldn't be able to protect Sherlock anymore and he jumped out of his bed, ignoring his protesting injuries, to pace like a caged animal from his window to his door, while Sherlock did the opposite and lounged in his bed like some lazy, overgrown cat, his eyes following him around. John kicked his slipper just to vent off some of his frustration, and paced some more. Sure, he didn't like having the Dreams before, they even scared him a bit, but now that the pattern was broken, he wanted them back. God knows what would happen without them.

"Broke it? How can you break it? It's…" Sherlock waved his fingers in the air. "Immaterial."

"I didn't have that Dream. The trap in the warehouse. I should've had it again."

"That's not so bad," Sherlock chuckled, earning himself a glare from the very unamused doctor. "What did you dream of then?"

"Nothing," John said shortly before his eyebrows knit together. "Well, no. Not nothing. Like… like when a Dream resets. Less even. Just colours, sounds, movement… I usually get at least a glimpse of you now, even in the early stages, however brief and blurry. I'm not sure, maybe it wasn't even one of those Dreams, maybe it was just a regular dream! A normal dream, Sherlock!"

Sherlock jumped off the bed in one graceful movement and placed himself right in the path John was burning a trail into with his frantic pacing and pulled him into a hug. John stiffened for all of two seconds, still unused to such overwhelming human contact, before he melted against him, just barely managing to hold back a sigh, but damn it if it didn't feel good. Unbelievably good. And right. It's like he was made to be hugged by Sherlock the way he fit into his arms and he basked in the warmth until all the tension drained right out of him.

"Better?" Sherlock asked as if he had been soothing a petulant child, but instead of feeling affronted, John just nodded. He had been overreacting, after all. "We can just wait until tomorrow, see if your Dream comes back. We still have time, remember."

John pushed himself gently out of Sherlock's arms to look up at him. The other man looked completely serene.

"But what if it doesn't come back?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Then we just live our regular lives. Have dreams like regular people."

"Isn't that… I don't know… Dull?" John asked uncertainly.

He'd heard Sherlock complain a lot when he found things dull, boring, tedious, pedestrian. He'd even used the word "blah" once, when he'd stumbled upon Lestrade trying to get him interested in a high-profile kidnapping. Just...blah. Lestrade had not been pleased and had threatened not to ask Sherlock on another case for two weeks after that. Threat he had quickly dropped since he had asked for Sherlock's help on the suicide-murders soon after.

But what if Sherlock found him boring now that he didn't have his Dreams. Would he get rid of him now? Ask him to move out? He knew Sherlock wasn't that fickle but the irrational fear coated every good thing that was going on in his life right now, distorting them into hideous fears that all involved Sherlock leaving him behind.

"I don't think you know how to be dull, John," Sherlock answered, his eyes crinkling. "And there's always The Work to keep us busy. We'll just have to deal with the villains as they come and fall into traps the regular way. And then get out of them, of course. I have a feeling we'll always make it out as a team, and I know you'll have my back, with or without your Dreams."

John huffed a half-hearted laugh at that. Sherlock was so carefree in his own weird way, even in matters of life and death, but he was being so earnest right now, his eyes shining so bright and hopeful that it made John's stomach do a triple back-flip. A team. He still wanted them to be a team.

"Yeah, I'll have your back, Sherlock," John promised, looking him square in the eyes. "I'll always have your back."

The Dream of Moriarty's trap did not return and the confused swirl of images that flashed through his mind during his sleep was changing too much from one night to the next to make any sort of sense out of it. As a result, John was continually worried, and Sherlock was trying to distract him. He knew that was the only reason the consulting detective had accepted a case as mundane as a missing person. But the man who had disappeared was a childhood friend of Lestrade's and the DI did not believe that he had just up and left his family. It wasn't his style, according to Lestrade but he had not found a single clue as to where he had disappeared off to, and thus, had come to Sherlock for help.

Lestrade had visibly come to 221B Baker Street ready to fight tooth and nail to convince him to accept the case so he was shocked into silence when Sherlock accepted immediately and pushed Lestrade and John out of the door because apparently "The game is on!", whatever that meant.

Thankfully, John wasn't as sore as he used to be and he only had to be careful about his ribs now.

"You sure you should be coming along?" Lestrade asked him with a worried frown as he crowded in the taxi after Sherlock and him, so he was sandwiched between the two taller men.

Apparently, Sherlock would not sit in a police car, however more practical it was and it must have been a long time argument between the two detectives because Lestrade quickly gave up on his car and left it sitting on the kerb. John wasn't about to tell Lestrade Sherlock had only accepted the case for his sake, trying to distract him from his dreams, or lack thereof.

"Sure. Almost as good as new," John answered with the fakest of smiles plastered across his face.

He still wasn't very good at lying and the wince he gave as the taxi hit a pothole was a bit of a giveaway.

"Yeah, right," Lestrade answered dubiously, taking in the faded bruises still visible on his face. He cleared his throat. "So... Mira, Bran's wife, will be there when we arrive, but she sent the two kids away to her parents in Ireland until things died down here. I might have gone a bit...uh...overboard with the investigation, so she's not very happy with me. This is my last chance before Bran's case goes on the backburner, and that's as good as becoming a cold case. I can't let that happen… give up on Bran. He deserves better."

"Shouldn't his wife be happy that you put so much means and efforts into finding her husband? It's not even your division," John asked, surprised. God knows he'd move heaven and earth if Sherlock disappeared. Hell, he'd even do it for Harry and they did not get along.

"Well, Mira never really liked me, and she's persuaded he abandoned her for some reason."

"Rocky marriage?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Not that I know of, but Bran has always been a bit quiet where his personal life is concerned. He's shy, you know, but he's a sweet guy, loves his kids, never has a harsh word for anyone. Honestly, that guy is a saint."

"Boring," Sherlock muttered, and John slapped him lightly in the arm, lest he had forgotten the man Lestrade was talking about was a personal friend of his and not just some random stranger, but he only smiled at the contact and caught John's hand in his own, keeping it tucked between them. John only managed to keep his blush under control because Lestrade, sitting on his other side, could not see the two of them holding hands like some lovestruck teenagers, but it was a close thing.

The cab finally slowed to a stop and they found a middle-aged woman standing in front of the quaint little gate that lead to the porch of her small home with her arms crossed over her chest and a mulish expression on her face. It was clear they were not welcome and the woman, Mira no doubt, looked liked she was trying to protect the oncoming invasion of her home with her body.

"Greg," she said tersely. "Haven't you done enough already?"

Lestrade frowned.

"I'd say I haven't done enough, Mira," he groused, not even bothering to greet her which surprised John. He didn't know the DI well, but he'd always been polite even when he was a bit gruff. "Unless you've heard from Bran."

The woman shook her auburn curls, paling slightly.

"Thought not. The case is still open and I brought our consulting detective to lend a hand. It won't take long."

"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock said warmly, stepping forward and extending a hand.

Sherlock held Mira's small hand longer than necessary while he crooned reassuring words into her ears.

John almost choked in disbelief. Sherlock was being overly kind, almost flirty. It was… sickening, to be honest, and he wasn't sure if it was because of the twinge of jealousy he felt or because he realized how good of an actor Sherlock could be when he put his mind to it. He just hoped Sherlock didn't use the same tricks on him. Lestrade looked equally confused but just shrugged when he met John's eyes, and they followed the other pair into the house, accepting tea from their now more gracious hostess.

"So tell me, Mira," Sherlock purred from the sofa he shared with the woman. "It must be quite a relief not having Bran around. From what he said, he ran quite a tight ship around here."

John winced at Sherlock's abruptness. He might as well have slapped the woman given her expression.

"What?" Mira exclaimed, her eyes wide in real surprise. It was the first show of real emotion she'd shown up to now. "No. No, Bran wasn't like that! He wasn't a… a penny-pincher! Overly cautious, maybe but never greedy. You know that, Greg!"

"Now, now," Sherlock said, patting her hand before standing up and walking seemingly at random around the room, his eyes locked on Mira's. "If the crime is not motivated by love, it is caused by money."

"Wait, Sherlock. I never said anything about a crime," Lestrade intervened and earned himself the first sign of gratefulness from the supposedly bereft wife.

Sherlock ignored the DI's protest and continued moving about the room, until he stopped near a laptop. John looked between Sherlock and Mira. The first looked smug while the latter seemed horrified.

"Looks like I know where to find the answers," Sherlock said, sitting in front of the laptop, opening it and starting to crack the password.

"You can't do that!" Mira exclaimed, pointing a trembling finger at him. "He can't do that!"

Lestrade shrugged.

"He's Sherlock Holmes. He does whatever the hell he wants. He even started a fire in Scotland Yard once and it wasn't an accident."

John was hard pressed not to laugh at that tidbit of information and the DI's resigned expression. It looked like he had abandoned trying to discipline the younger man a long time ago and just went along with whatever craziness he caused.

They were interrupted by a loud snort coming from Sherlock and they all turned to look at him.

"Your children's names are not a valid password, Mrs Reed," he said as he scanned the computer, seemingly sucking out the information he needed out of the screen itself, like some kind of modern day vampire that fed on data.

"Gambling. Obvious. Is that why your husband was furious with you? You lost his life savings... No... even more than that. You owe money that you don't have. That's bound to cause some friction in a marriage."

Mira was becoming undone with every new accusation, until she was a sobbing mess. John would have felt bad for her if she hadn't suddenly become the prime suspect in her husband's suspicious disappearance. And Sherlock was brilliant, just mind-blowingly brilliant.

"He... He wasn't..." she stuttered, her voice just as broken as her appearance. She wasn't pretending anymore.

"The past tense again, Mrs Reed? Won't you ever learn?" Sherlock tutted.

Mira heaved a huge sob that had her whole frame shudder convulsively.

"Sherlock, you've got to let her breathe a little if you want her to confess," John teased.

"Good point, John. Well, Mira? It won't be difficult to make a case against you, as you can see, so why don't you tell us what happened to your husband?"

She was trembling all over, hugging herself as if she was trying to keep the warmth from escaping her and just when it looked like she wouldn't, couldn't speak, she did.

"Bran... He didn't even... He wasn't even angry. He should've... It's all my fault."

John glanced at the DI. He wasn't sure that counted as a confession. But the DI wasn't the one sitting in the overstuffed armchair next to his right now, it was only Greg, the man who had just learned his childhood friend was dead. He was white as a sheet and was clutching the armchair in an iron grip. John who was closest, reached over to squeeze his hand. Lestrade was probably in shock but letting him know they - well, no, maybe not Sherlock - but that he was there if he needed support was the least he could do.

"Even after what I'd done, all that money I lost... The money I owed..." she whispered fearfully. "Bran...he still wanted to protect me."

"Of course!" Sherlock shouted, startling everyone in the room. Watching Sherlock solving a crime was like watching a very dramatic stage performance at the theatre. "I wondered how you could have subdued your husband, he's quite a lot stronger than you. Poison is always a possibility, of course -"

"Sherlock!" John intervened once more and he nodded in direction of Lestrade. Sherlock at least had the decency to look abashed. Gloating was just not on right now.

"Uhm, right. Please continue, Mrs Reed." Sherlock said.

"I stopped. The gambling. But it was already too late. I owed so much… so much money. I sold my jewelry but it wasn't enough so I borrowed money from these people. I had to. I didn't want Bran to know… I was...scared, and desperate. But I couldn't pay them back soon enough. They-" Another sob escaped her but she covered her mouth with her hands, trying to get back under control to finish her tale. "They threatened me… Then, they showed up here, and Bran came back from work and just stepped in. Told them he'd call…"

She looked at Lestrade.

"He'd call the cops on them."

It was obvious what had happened after that. They didn't even need Sherlock's very visual description. How he knew exactly what had happened in the brief struggle that had led to Mr Reed's death from a few details he'd gleaned as he walked around the living room and hallway was a mystery. He truly was a genius. A mad genius with a beautiful mind.

"But I don't understand," Lestrade said, interrupting them. "Where is the body and why didn't you call me Mira? Tell me the truth? If you're just scared, I would have protected you."

Mira cried, mumbling that he didn't understand, so Sherlock continued.

"The body is in the garden as evidenced by the traces you can find between the floorboards cracks. Washed but not thoroughly enough. I bet you will find blood under the traces of mud there too. Not that you need the evidence."

John coughed, his meaning clear.

"Yes, well, "Sherlock resumed, after having peered at the window . "You should find Bran's remain under that large tree's roots. There's a spot that has obviously been stirred. Good job with the grass but the moss is missing. Ans she hasn't called you, Lestrade, because the children are not with their grandparents in Ireland, are they, Mrs Reed?"

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade exclaimed, standing up so suddenly his heavy armchair almost toppled over. "You left Rob and Ned with those monsters? Are you an idiot? How do you even know they're alive?"

"They… they call everyday. Let me talk to them. Make sure I keep my end of the bargain."

"Paying up and shutting up?" Sherlock asked bluntly.

Mrs Reed nodded, her face all red, snotty and puffy. Lestrade was regaining some colour now too, but it was more of an angry red and John thought the DI might just throttle the woman, but he whipped out his phone and started barking orders in his phone instead.

"You can't!" Mira wailed, springing up from the sofa to plead with Lestrade. "They'll know! They'll hurt my babies!"

"He's not quite as idiotic as you," Sherlock snarled and pushed her back down. "Now, shut up. I'm thinking."

"Just do as the man says, Mira, and shut up," Lestrade growled.

What had only been a missing person case when they'd set out earlier had quickly turned into a murder and the kidnapping of two young children, not to mention the blackmail. John was entertained alright, but he was also glad he'd managed to grab his gun this morning before Sherlock had thrown them out of the flat. Especially now that he was so uncertain of what the future held. Normally, no Dream meant Sherlock wasn't in any mortal peril, but now he wasn't so sure. He may be. John would have to be vigilant. Do it the regular way, as Sherlock had said. John could do it. He wasn't a klutz, he was a highly trained soldier for God's sake, he should manage to keep one man alive. Even if that man was trouble-magnet Sherlock Holmes.

John liked at his… what? Flatmate? Friend? Protégé? Boyfriend? He wasn't exactly sure, but he looked at him fondly nonetheless. His tall frame was currently bent over a spot of the doorframe and- wait... Was he licking that doorframe? That was kinda gross, although his body reacted entirely differently at the sight of the pink tip of his tongue darting out.

Focus, John! Kidnapped children, remember?

The doorbell rang and Mrs Reed jumped in her seat with a strangled whimper.

"That's Detectives Donovan and Dimmock. Mira, go greet them at the door like they're old friends, and be convincing about it," Lestrade snapped.

The woman jumped to attention and quickly wiped her face clean with the handkerchief she'd been twisting in her hands since she turned into a sobbing mess. It wasn't much of an improvement but at least she was trying. Soon after, Donovan, the annoying female inspector who had looked down at him, and a younger man who had to be Detective Dimmock joined them in the living room and had a hushed but lively discussion, or argument, with Lestrade. They'd waved in turn at Sherlock, at him, then Mira and the tall tree outside. It wasn't difficult to get their meaning, and no one was happy.

Except maybe Sherlock, he seemed pleased by something.

"Freaks," Donovan greeted, if you can call it that, as she approached, now that she was up to date with the case.

"I think she's got your number, John," Sherlock said cheekily as he shook hands with the other inspector, completely ignoring what the younger man was telling him. Something trite and polite, no doubt. The young man seemed a bit star-struck by Sherlock, not that he'd blame him.

"Dimmock," the young DI said as he shook hands with John this time. "What've you ever done to piss off the sergeant?"

"Donovan?" John crinkled his brow, thinking back. "Oh, right. I did threaten her with bodily harm, I suppose, but she wasn't being very cooperative."

Dimmock scuttled off to stand near Lestrade after that. Clearly, he was regretting being here.

"Right," Sherlock said. "If we're finished losing time with social niceties, maybe we could focus on the children."

No one had any objections, not even to the fact that he was apparently heading this operation. Sherlock just radiated natural leadership. Besides, he was the brain of the operation, anyone could see that.

"First, Bran will have to wait for a bit before he is...extracted."

That was almost tactful coming from Sherlock, who was waiting for a nod of agreement from Lestrade before he continued.

"Good. It would have drawn too much attention. Now, I have narrowed down the geographical area the kidnappers came from, we only have to hope they have taken the children to that same place or it will take ages before we catch their trail again. Donovan, you should take that part in charge immediately: track the phone number, create the portraits, check out that pub where they first made contact... You know the drill. You're actually good at that."

Sherlock completely missed Donovan's gobsmacked expression at what had to be praise coming from him, but John managed to snap a picture. It would surely get a smile out of Sherlock. The woman had her jaw hanging open and it wasn't a figure of speech.

"Lestrade, I'd rather you stayed with Mrs Reed for when the kidnappers contact her again. You're too close to the victims anyway, your lack of focus will only hamper us. And you..." Sherlock drew a blank as he looked at the youngest Scotland Yard detective. "Who are you again?"

"Erm… Detective Inspector Dimmock. I just- never mind. How can I help?"

"Dig out any profile registered at the Yard for us that has to do with a gang of thugs operating in northern London, or skirting the edges. Nothing like murder or kidnapping though. They're being very, very careful so this is probably a first for them. Search for extortion, blackmail, burglary, assault. Close knit group, maybe brothers, cousins... Something like that."

Sherlock finally stopped. Everyone, John included, was gawking at him. Not only because he could speak for an incredibly long period of time without needing to catch his breath, but how the hell had he gotten so much information just from licking the doorframe? However, everyone just accepted his work and set off to do their assigned tasks.

"We're going after the thugs, I imagine?" John asked, approaching Sherlock.

"Elementary, John. Ready?" he asked, his eyes crinkling as he smiled down at him.

John smiled back. Yes, Sherlock was definitely getting off on this, but then, so was he. He motioned vaguely at his back to indicate that he had his gun, and they were off again