Archive of Our Own ^beta

So much can happen in a second. A bullet can destroy a career. A fall can end a life. A glimpse can bring clarity to a relationship.

John felt as though he had awakened from a fever dream. Two years on—the first, all broken-hearted grieving, festering anger, and aimlessness; the second, gradual rebuilding, passive involvement, and bemused acceptance—and a simple glimpse of someone who only looked like Sherlock had once more changed the trajectory of his life.

He still had the ring.

Last night, Mary had returned from the ladies' room, and she had come back luminous. Utterly breathtaking. But not thirty seconds before that, John had glanced around the room, queasy anticipation and prickling anxiety making him question yet again whether this was the right thing to do. Mary had had good reason to expect a proposal of marriage, given that their dinner date was on a week night, the restaurant required three-week advance reservations, and John had never taken her anywhere so posh before.

But then he had seen him.

Only he hadn't, really. Not his face. Only a glimpse, barely an impression. Just a slim form, seen from the back, a tall man with dark, longish hair, striding out of the restaurant.

It had been a while since he had last "seen" Sherlock. Eight months? Nine? Yet last night, at that moment, he had found himself poised to launch out of his chair, leg muscles contracted, shoulders tight, ready as always to follow, to shout, "Sherlock!" But the door to the dining area had closed, and it couldn't have been him, anyway.

Because Sherlock was dead. Still dead. Forever dead.

Yes, still an idiot.

But at that moment, trembling and flushed with more emotion than he had felt in a year, John had shoved the ring box back into his jacket pocket. Mary had returned and she had smiled that beautiful smile, the one she reserved just for him—and the words that had teetered on the tip of his tongue were not, "Will you marry me?" but, "I saw Sherlock." Which was nonsense, it had been a resemblance, nothing more, only a stranger with Sherlock's lean frame, perfectly garbed in a bespoke suit, unruly hair soft on the nape of a long neck. So John had smiled back, said, "You look lovely," and kissed Mary's hand while keeping his own hand, somehow, from betraying the turmoil inside him. And then he had acted as if they had come to this special restaurant only to enjoy the evening together.

Clarity: It had struck him last night as he lay at Mary's side, her head heavy on his shoulder.

He liked her well enough; but could he say in all honesty that he loved her? Truly loved her, in the way that he had loved—? When she had joined their surgery earlier in the year, he had noted her beauty, her lovely eyes, her knowing smile. Within weeks, she had ingratiated herself with the staff and the patients, all overwhelmed by her compassion, her cleverness, her tart humor. And she had begun to woo John Watson. It had been flattering. Over the following weeks they had become friends, meeting for coffee, for walks in the park, for evenings at the cinema. And, eventually, they had become more, staying over at each other's flat once or twice a week. She had warmed his body and, more importantly, his heart. Three months ago, John had moved in with her, tired of making excuses. She had been kind to him, perhaps had even saved him. She wanted him close, and he owed her.

And then she had begun to talk about marriage. He had rebuffed those discussions at first, making offhand, self-deprecating jokes, using the tried-and-true tactic of deflection to skirt the issue. At some point she had taken to reminding him how much his life had improved with her in it (proper feeding, companionship, sex) and how he had achieved stability in his workplace and his relationships, all at least partly because of her. It had been lovely to be the one courted; and, yes, the sex was good.

For some people, affection and friendship were more than enough to form the foundation of a marriage, and he and Mary shared that in abundance. She, cheerfully persistent, had taken to asking what he was waiting for. The years were fleeting, she said, and they were, neither one, getting younger. If they married now, they might even have children.

Did he want children? In truth, it had never factored in any plans he'd had for his future. And during the time he had lived at Baker Street, Sherlock had been child enough without having to bring the messiness of infancy into the mix. He had argued against it. Mary was older; pregnancies were risky at her age. After a while, she had conceded; but somehow, with that concern out of the way, it had come to be understood that they would nevertheless marry. John, passive after the storm of grief and loss of the last two years, had finally agreed. They had window-shopped for rings and the jeweler had sized Mary's finger. The day had come when John had awakened feeling at peace. Looking back now, it had been resignation. But that day, he had picked up a ring and called the restaurant.

It had all fallen apart last night, when he discovered that the foundations of his new life had been built on emotional gossamer. There would be no wedding. He would tell her it was over. It was depressingly obvious now that he had never been fair to her, would never have truly committed to her. Perhaps they could remain friends, but John doubted it. Mary had steel in her, and she would not surrender their relationship easily. Certainly not for the specter of Sherlock Holmes. He would have to find work elsewhere.

Clarity: Inconvenient, cruel, essential.

John had slipped out of the flat this morning, hours before dawn, leaving a note on the kitchen counter. Out for a walk. See you at the surgery. Mary might worry when she saw that; she might as likely shrug it off. She had accommodated his moods from the beginning, had seemed always to say and do the right thing. Even last night, clearly confused by the patently mixed signals of their evening together, she had not confronted him—for which he had been cravenly grateful. But he could no longer deny how badly he had taken advantage of her. He had been selfish, he had used her, and now he would be unkind.

All because of Sherlock. Always because of Sherlock.

It was lightening outside, dawn less than an hour away. After walking and walking, he had come to a stop here, a small nearby cafe where he was known. The owner had greeted him as he had entered, her sole customer at that point, and minutes later a pot of tea, a small jug of milk, and a plate of toasted teacakes drenched in butter, had appeared before him. "Rough night?"

"Bit." John's smile had been rueful, and the owner, a woman around John's age, had seemed to understand. With a brief pat on his shoulder, solidarity no matter the cause, she had returned to filling the pastry case. Others had come and gone since then, drinking their tea or coffee under bright lights; a few had recognized him from the practice and hailed him while thankfully keeping their distance. Thankfully, because he wasn't in the mood for evaluating symptoms. Instead, he drank tea refreshed with hot water, and continued to pick at the last of his teacake.

His mug was finally empty, save for a smear of milky tea at the bottom, stark against the cheap white porcelain. Removed from context, what would it appear to be? A bit of gravy? An experiment with mud? That first year, the year after Sherlock's death, he had seen him everywhere, even knowing that it could not possibly be him. Last night surely was no different. And yet— Why did it feel different? What had he actually seen? Sherlock would have insisted on details.

A tall man—the back of a tall man, at that. There had been no time to catch even a profile. Sherlock's height and perfect posture. The same color hair, in that madly Byronic style. A black suit, obviously expensive; white shirt, Oxford style probably, based on the thin line visible above the collar of the suit and the starched cuff at the wrist. His hand, holding open the door as he passed through to the pavement, unusually large for such a narrow frame, with long, strong-looking fingers. And that was all, really. John heaved a sigh and shook his head. He had mistaken a hundred other men for Sherlock since his death. So why should this one—? Could it be possible that he had unwittingly observed something else? Had the man spoken? John would have known that voice instantly. Had he worn a scent? Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to recreate the moment in his mind, drawing in air now as he might have done then.

But of course it was a ridiculous attempt; the cafe smelled nothing like the restaurant. Perhaps the man had been wearing Sherlock's cologne; it was readily, if expensively, available. Perhaps someone nearby had spoken in the same deep register, maybe even a single word. Taken in combination, in that moment, that glimpsed figure had become quintessentially Sherlock Holmes.

John let his eyes fall shut. He had thought he was past this. "Guess you're still missed, you stupid git," he muttered under his breath, as weary as he was amused. It was different now, certainly, nothing like those first months. He had been angry at everyone, especially Mycroft for his appalling perfidy, Lestrade and his team for their part in discrediting Sherlock, and all of those people whom Moriarty had bewitched, blackmailed, extorted, or intimidated into propagating his lies. Sherlock, too. Perhaps, Sherlock most of all. John had used his anger like oxygen to cope, until it had turned poisonous, killing him bit by bit.

For a while, he had even disappeared down the conspiracy rabbit hole, questioning everything he had seen, everything he had been told, everything he had read, anything at all to do with Sherlock and Moriarty—all to explain that somehow Sherlock could have survived. But repeatedly reliving that week, those last minutes, an unhealthy exercise at best and punishingly corrosive to his psyche at worst, had finally convinced him that, while Sherlock had matched Moriarty in every particular—as brilliant, as clever, as resourceful and twisty-minded as the consulting criminal himself—and could have, should have crafted a fail-safe that would have avoided his own death, he had not.

John refused to call it suicide.

Time had worn him down. Time, grief, and emotional exhaustion. He had moved out of Baker Street, despite Mycroft's offer to pay Sherlock's portion of the rent. Instead, he had found a locum position in another part of London, taking on more hours over the months as his superior came to appreciate his knowledge and experience and, more importantly, his willingness to arrive early and stay late. A bit of savings and the remains of his and Sherlock's shared account had gone to procuring a tiny flat near the surgery, where he ate, showered, and slept; it would have been a step too far to call it "lived." And he had cut himself off from almost everyone he knew, people he had once counted his friends, through the simple expedient of turning off his phone and replacing it with a new one. Admittedly, that hadn't worked with Mycroft, but John had soon learned that stubborn silence, no matter how polite the conversation, had gotten his message across. As that first year waned and Mycroft had persisted, John had grudgingly agreed to infrequent meetings and texts. He would never have conceded it out loud (and barely even to himself), but continued contact with Mycroft gave John a still needed, if tenuous, connection with Sherlock.

It was no wonder that he had responded to Mary. She had found him wounded, isolated and, by then, more than a little dead inside. It was the challenge, he supposed. There were women whose purpose in life was to repair damaged people and, by then, John was as damaged as they came. He owed her so much—

And yet, the glimpse of a stranger had brought him back to himself, had made him reevaluate his situation, had given him a new purpose, a new plan. John suspected that Sherlock would have commended John for rethinking his situation. Doing something because it was the path of least resistance, especially something as binding as marriage, would have offended his notions of logic and clear thinking.

After a visit to the toilet, John stepped outside into the grey light of early morning. There were still a few hours until his shift, so he made his way towards the park, in no hurry to return to the flat and Mary. The streets were waking up around him, buses rumbling, cabs zipping past, cyclists wearing protective masks and helmets yet cruising alongside behemoths that could crush them in an instant. John avoided both yummy mummies running on the pavement with protectively screened pushcarts hurtling along in front of them, and walkers with prancing dogs. The farther he ventured away from the town centre, the quieter the streets became, with fewer people and vehicles, and, blessedly, fresher air.

Ancient plane trees sported new leaves, palest green quivering in the meandering, surprisingly clement breeze. Small birds hopped from branch to branch, their songs piercing and insistent. It felt as if Sherlock walked beside him, and the sense of his imagined approval reinforced John's resolve for the confrontation to come. It was time for a new start, and this would be one of his own making. The relief, he was ashamed to admit to himself, was almost dizzying.

He would need a new flat to go with a new job. Surely Mary would not object if he slept on the sofa for a few days. A smattering of his things remained at Baker Street; Mrs Hudson had graciously allowed him to store them there. He would take her something sweet and have a chat, a long overdue chat. No expectations; he assumed 221B had been let long ago. But perhaps she would allow him to add a few items to his stash. A pitifully few bits, as almost everything, including the house, belonged to Mary.

Lost in his thoughts, he did not at first notice the sleek, black vehicle pacing him, crawling along a few meters behind. Shark-like cars interrupting him on the pavement belonged to his past. So he cast a puzzled glance around, as if it might be hunting for other, more suitable prey. His last contact with Mycroft had constituted an unexpectedly amusing exchange of texts. It had been John's birthday, of all things, and Mycroft—Mycroft!—had wished him happy returns. Bemused, John had sent back a gif of a cat enjoying a plate of birthday cake. Several hours later, while waiting wet and miserable in the queue for the bus home, John's phone had pinged again: Indeed. That was all, but his mood had lifted at having been remembered, making a wet, tedious day unaccountably more bearable.

It appeared that this brazenly institutional black car was designated for him. A flicker of headlamps preceded a smooth stop alongside the curb. Tinted, probably bulletproof, glass made it impossible to see inside.

One of the back doors opened, and an Italian leather-shod foot appeared. The rest of the man—and John knew it was Mycroft Holmes before even seeing his face—emerged. Not a minion; the man himself. He appeared unchanged to John, as elegantly attired and regal as ever.

"Good day, Doctor Watson."

"Mycroft." John studied the other man's unreadable face, trying to delve beyond the impenetrable ice-blue eyes to the devious mind behind. It could not be a coincidence, Mycroft's being here. Somehow he knew that John had seen Sherlock's body double last night, and there was some top secret plan to make use of him, to persuade people that Sherlock was back and wreaking havoc among the criminal element of London. Mycroft was simply here to ensure that John would not spill the beans about that man and the counterfeit he must be.

So there was no reason for his throat to have gone dry or the rhythm of his heart to have jumped its tracks. Because he had seen Sherlock's body, and he had known it to be Sherlock's body, and there had been no pulse, and he knew, he knew—

John's voice wavered only a little when he said, "Been a while." He forced himself to shed the inchoate tension coiling up his spine, to conjure the tiniest smile of welcome.

"You're looking well."

John let out an uncomfortable laugh. "And you. What's up, Mycroft?"

One of Mycroft's hands came up and tapped at his breast. "I have something for you, and I would much prefer not to give it to you on the pavement." He gestured towards the open car door. "Might I persuade you to join me? I have coffee."

John shook his head, not in refusal but confusion. "Give me a hint?"

But, with no discernible change in expression, Mycroft said, "Please, John."

"All right, yeah. Coffee, you said?"

He slipped inside the seemingly hermetic interior, half-expecting to be met by someone with a gun equipped with a silencer, for no other reason than that this was Mycroft, and it was possible. But there was no one else and, as promised, the console in the center of the backseat held two shockingly plebeian takeaway cups of coffee, by their scent very recently brewed. Mycroft took his seat on the other side of the console and, the instant the door closed the car lazily veered away from the curb and began to prowl down the road.

John sat stiffly upright, his feet braced on the floor. Tugging his jacket squarely over his hips, he jerked his chin to the side, inviting Mycroft to speak. "Well?"

From an inner breast pocket, Mycroft pulled out an envelope. With a small, regretful moue, he handed it over.

His name was on the outside, only that. But the handwriting …. Ice washed over him from head to toe and for a suffocating moment his lungs forgot how to work. It seemed, where Sherlock was concerned, John never failed to respond instantly and emphatically. But he wasn't really an idiot. Even though that was Sherlock's handwriting, and he was sure that it was, Sherlock could have written it two years ago. Nevertheless, he choked a little as he said, "When?"

With terrible gentleness, Mycroft replied, "Only this morning."

"But that's—" John squeezed his eyes shut and rocked forward a little, exhaling loudly. "Impossible. How—?"

"Read the letter, John. Pray, pretend that I am not here. Or, if you prefer, I will have the driver stop and I will wait outside until you have finished." Coming from Mycroft, the offer was astonishingly magnanimous—and added further significance to the envelope's contents.

John found that his hand had come up and was concealing his eyes, tightly closed but stinging like nettles. "You're telling me he's alive? I saw— Mycroft."

"The letter, John."

John raised his head and fixed Mycroft with a hard stare, which was returned unblinking and impassive. With a numb finger he unstuck the flap and reached inside. He felt as if he stood outside himself, a stunned third party watching wide-eyed as he tugged out a single, tri-folded sheet of creamy vellum. His uncooperative fingers shook as he smoothed it out, as he took in that distinctive handwriting.

Finding it hard to swallow, John noisily cleared his throat. It was impossible to conceal the tremor in his hands, the veins bulging at his temples, the sheen of his eyes, all the attendant indications of devastating shock, especially from one of the Holmes brothers, who saw everything. So he didn't even try. "This morning, you said?"

"Yes." Mycroft gave nothing away, even pretending that John was not on the verge of shattering.

John—

I have written this letter inside my head almost every day for two years, yet somehow it seems impossible to put to paper in any reasonable form. So, the salient facts:

- I am not dead.
- My death was a ruse, its execution planned to the smallest detail.
- It was necessary. Please allow me to emphasize this: It was necessary.
- Those I hold dear (few as they are) are now safe, principal among them, you.
- The depraved thing that was Moriarty (and all in his employ) has been eradicated.
- I apologize for the grief you have suffered. Had there been a way to spare you that, I would have taken it.
- Now that I am back, it is inevitable that someone will notice me; so it is imperative that you not be taken unawares. Hence, this missive.
- It is an awful thing, what I did, necessary though it was; and so I will understand if you do not wish to receive further communication from me. But, if you can find it in yourself to allow it, I would very much like to meet with you, so that I might explain.

John, you know that I am not given to repeating myself, but I am sorry, so very sorry to have perpetrated this deception. It seems, however, that there is to be a happy event in your future, and I hope you will accept my well wishes as genuine and heartfelt. You deserve every good thing.

My brother was essential in enacting my death and disappearance, so if you want to strike someone, I suggest you start there. Be aware, though, that he might object, and isn't quite as defenseless as he appears. If, however, you prefer to express your feelings directly to me, any measure of hostility included, I will gladly meet you anywhere, anytime that you choose.

Yours, Sherlock

John placed the letter flat on his lap and read it again—and just to prove its existence, once more. Finally, he folded it and pushed it into the envelope. A cataclysm of emotion was welling inside him, an unholy mix of bitterness and joy, relief and confusion, and no small amount of anger and marrow-deep hurt. He felt Mycroft's eyes on him, waiting, keenly watching. "Where is he?"

"Baker Street."

John nodded to himself. "Tell him to meet me at the cemetery; he'll know which one. One hour."

Mycroft indicated his agreement. "I shall do so."

"Thanks." It was a struggle, but John worked his mouth into a raw smile. "He said I could hit you."

"Alas, he did not consult me on that."

John laughed out loud, despite the tears that burned the backs of his eyes and made his throat unbearably tight. "He said you might object." He pressed a fist against his mouth. "Mycroft—"

"Hm?"

Giving no warning, John stretched across the console and hooked Mycroft around his slender shoulders with one arm. No more than a couple of seconds passed, and the hug was awkward, but to John's great surprise, Mycroft tolerated it. John released him and grabbed one of the cups. After forcing down a much-needed gulp of what proved to be exceptionally good coffee, John gestured towards the pavement. The car came instantly to a smooth stop. "You kept him alive."

"I did my best."

John nodded again and grabbed for the door handle just as the driver drew it open. "One hour."

Mycroft smiled his Mona Lisa smile. "I heard you the first time, Doctor Watson."

A moment later, John stood on the pavement, tracking the vehicle as it disappeared down the road and around a corner. He didn't care where he was; he could reach the cemetery in under an hour from anywhere in London. This would give him a chance to think, to absorb in his very bones the truth of Sherlock's resurrection, to prepare himself for the moment when he saw him again. One more miracle, Sherlock, for me ….

But a swift glance around—private homes on one side of the street; the stone wall, lined with trees, on the other side of the street—told him exactly where he was. He had thought that Mycroft's driver had been driving aimlessly, but there, across from where he stood, was the cemetery where Sherlock's empty grave lay.

Bloody Mycroft.

He might have been affronted at having been so very predictable, but cabs were expensive and the buses did not always run on time. And Sherlock was alive.

It was impossible to get his head around that. Actually it should have been impossible. But this was Sherlock and Mycroft and somehow, somehow, Sherlock had survived the fall from the roof of St Bart's. It was necessary. Which meant that he had to have been plotting it for some time, as all of the requisite pieces could not have been put into place at the last minute. Yet he had never said a word to John. No warning. No attempt to soften the coming blow. Just lies. This is my note.

It burned like acid to have been so deceived. To have wasted more than a year in widow's weeds because he had believed Sherlock dead—and, quite honestly, to have died a little himself. He had always known that Sherlock did not think or act like other people, but to have done this, to him. Capricious and heedless Sherlock could be, but John had never believed that he could be so deliberately cruel, off the charts cruel—at least not to John. And yet … he felt a small caustic smile snake across his lips. There would now be time for John to give that resurrected bastard an almighty rollicking for what he had done to him, for the hurt he had caused. He pictured them sitting together—at a cafe? Baker Street?—talking, just talking. Sherlock would tell him how he had faked his death, would explain why he had needed to be "dead" for two years, would— But, no. In reality, he would get a case and drag John along with him before he could actually answer any of John's questions. And that, John decided, was all right, too. Because they had time.

Once again Sherlock Holmes had turned his life upside down. Three—four?—hours ago, John had been walking the streets, feeling rather like a railcar that had been shunted onto a different track without warning, the life he had been living rapidly falling behind him. A mere hour ago, he had begun to gather the courage needed to cut his ties to that old life: Mary. The surgery. A jolt of imminence cut through his preoccupation. Mary. The surgery.

He immediately pulled out his phone and rang the surgery's after-hours number and left a recorded apology for his absence. And then he phoned Mary, intending to tell her that something had come up and they would talk later. When the call went to voicemail, he breathed out the disquiet of a man given a reprieve. Whatever came of this meeting, of seeing Sherlock again, he had no intention of going back to the way things had been, and he was glad that he had already taken that decision. He told himself that Mary would be happier without him, without the man who loved someone else, who still woke from nightmares screaming his name.

He tucked his phone away and scrubbed his face dry. He hadn't cried in ages; he was going to kill Sherlock! And then he straightened up, braced his shoulders, and went across the road, half running, half walking. After ensuring that there were no onlookers, he scaled the wall and jarringly landed in the middle of a recently planted flowerbed. Grimacing an apology to the purple and yellow violas crushed underfoot, he vaulted away onto the lawn. The trees thinned as he quick-marched up to the top of the slope. From there he had almost a clear view of the grave-studded field beyond.

And there he was. Of course, he was. Mycroft had anticipated where John would want to meet; it could hardly come as a surprise that Sherlock had done, as well.

He had never glimpsed him here. On the street, in a restaurant, at the park, every tall, lithe, dark-clad man had received a second look; but he would never have made that mistake here, because here Sherlock was interred beneath the stone that bore his name. Yet there he stood, and there was no question at all who it was, this man, his back to John—still tall, still lean, shockingly lean without his greatcoat, holding himself ramrod straight— who stared down at his own grave. Sherlock.

John let out a ragged breath that could too easily become a sob. Slowing his pace, he approached as one would an unpredictable animal, aware that he was shaking, that his legs had gone numb, and that he was in a borderline state of shock. Bringing himself to a halt several feet behind that unmoving figure, his tread cushioned by the damp grass, so that he was as yet unheard or, possibly, only unacknowledged, he took the risk of closing his eyes, needing a moment to slow his heart, to master his nerves. When he opened them again, unbelievably, Sherlock was still there.

Only a few steps were needed to bring him opposite the other man, the boundaries of Sherlock's grave an effective barrier between them. Sherlock hesitantly raised his head and John, mesmerized by the face of his dead friend come back to life, knew that his approach had been noted. Sherlock was only a little changed: a hint of purpling beneath familiar wide and intense eyes, complexion a touch paler than usual, cheeks slightly more angled, more taut. Otherwise, he appeared whole and undamaged. All the same, there was a faint air of apprehension about him, noticeable in his braced stance, his slightly defensive posture, the way his eyes roved warily over John's face.

"You colossal bastard," John croaked. As greetings go, it must have sounded distinctly lacking in welcome; it certainly lacked in volume, as John's throat was too tight to muster more than a strangled whisper. But Sherlock must also have heard the aching affection in his words, as his wariness faded, and a small, penitent smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. "Hello, John." Somehow it was that incomparable voice, dark as coal, rich as chocolate, that convinced John, at last, that the man standing before him really was not a dream.

Still, questions spun in his head, so many that he couldn't seem to grasp a single one, and so he stood speechless and spellbound. As he studied the other man, he discovered that his first impression had been wrong. Sherlock had changed, and more than a little, though only someone who had known him well could have pinpointed the differences. He had lost weight, not a great deal, but enough to pare down his already slender frame. The evidence was in the jacket that hung rather loosely; in the shirt that lay across his chest without strain. And, too, there was something at the back of his eyes, something John could not reliably identify, but which had not been there the last time he had seen him. It spoke of hardship and need and sacrifice. Whatever he had gone through, whatever he had done, wherever he had been for the last two years, it had scored him to the depths of his being. That brilliant spark, though still phosphorus bright, looked to be tempered now.

Or maybe Sherlock was just exhausted, and John was being fanciful.

Sherlock remarked wonderingly, "You're not angry."

In fact, John was so overwhelmed he couldn't honestly categorize half of what he was feeling. But anger was part of it, if currently standing at parade rest, and he wanted that to be very clear. "Wrong." He tried to school his face to fierceness. "I'm furious. Absolutely raging."

Sherlock tipped his head quizzically, the look he wore when he was entertaining an anomaly. "And yet—?"

"You've come back from the dead!" John shouted, gesturing broadly. "Two years, Sherlock! Two years, and I—" His composure cracked, and he needed a moment to recover it.

"John. John—"

"You're here, and I had to be sure—" His voice failed him again. He tried to force it clear, only to dredge up a rasp. "—that you're really all right … before I start giving you the bollocking you deserve."

"I am. John." There was such longing in Sherlock's eyes, whether for forgiveness, for understanding, or possibly for consolation, John couldn't know. But he was ready to offer them up, all of them, his own raw feelings be damned. Sherlock's lower lip trembled, and he caught it between his teeth. That tiny smile appeared again. "Well, mostly."

John's mind went blank. "Mostly? What does that mean?"

"Bit of torture." Sherlock wrinkled his nose, as if torture were a mere bagatelle, a hazard of disappearing oneself. "To be expected, really."

"Sherlock." John's stomach rolled. If Sherlock said "bit of torture," it was likely to have been far more than a bit. But John also knew that he liked to dramatize things, in the service of redirection, and it was so very Sherlock to just throw it out there like that. Still drinking in every detail of the impossible creature in front of him, John hoped that's all it was, that Sherlock was only playing for sympathy, contriving to sabotage John's justifiable anger. Surely he could tell by now that it wasn't necessary? "How could you be tortured if you were dead?"

It was a ridiculous question, utterly inane, yet it brought a sudden fond smile to Sherlock's face. There was so much affection in the tilt of his head and in the twinkle of his eyes that John almost didn't mind when he chided, "Not actually dead, John. Obviously."

"Sherlock." He breathed out heavily, his voice falling to a harsh whisper, "You were to me."

"I know, John. And I—"

But John had had enough. Not allowing himself time to think another thought, he crossed Sherlock's grave in two steps and threw his arms around him, yanking him into a crushing embrace. "You stupid, stupid sod!" John buried his face in the curve of Sherlock's neck, his hands groping across his narrow back, instinctively seeking solidity, proof that this was no apparition, no hallucination. "How could you—? I can't believe you—!Two years, you arse!"

"Ah, John—" Sherlock's fingers clutched at John's jacket and he let out a groan, a low animal sound of pain. "Sherlock?" John instinctively tightened his hold, only for Sherlock to slump forward, his head dropping heavily onto John's shoulder. The breath left his body in a long exhalation as he went utterly and terrifyingly limp.

"Sherlock!" Heart rocketing in his chest, John fumbled to deliver both of them to the grass unharmed, a hand behind Sherlock's head, the other around his back. Sherlock's limbs were heavy and ungainly as John rolled him into the recovery position. He whisked off his own jacket, folded it loosely, and slid it beneath a marble-white cheek. Sherlock's pulse was fast and thready, and his skin was cool and slick with perspiration, but he was breathing steadily, if shallowly. John wiped his hand against his thigh and yanked out his phone—at which point he learned that it wasn't Sherlock's sweat on his palm. Using the hand that wasn't smeared with blood, he sent a two-word text to Mycroft, his swiftest and most dependable resource: AMBULANCE NOW!

John performed a brisk field examination. Airway, breathing, pupils, pulse. Sherlock was good for all of those. Sickeningly conscious of the blood streaking his hand, John slid his fingers beneath Sherlock's jacket, blindly examining the damage. There were large swaths of sodden surgical dressing beneath his equally soaked shirt, all tacky with blood. The idiot should have been in hospital. No wonder he had been standing so rigidly. This wasn't the result of a "bit" of torture; Sherlock had been savaged.

The dressings indicated that Sherlock's wounds had been recently treated but, without stripping him naked, John could not know the true extent and severity of his injuries. Undoubtedly, he had been cautioned against overexertion, which advice he had also very obviously disregarded. To meet with me. John's sour guilt mingled uncomfortably with something like vindication, consolation, satisfaction? He patted the too-pale cheek lightly. "Sherlock! Sherlock, wake up!" His trouser legs were steadily getting wetter and he wished for something, anything, to get Sherlock up and off the dew-wet grass. "Sherlock. Don't you dare die on me again!"

The ambulance must have been parked on the grounds: it roared down the lane between the sections nearest to Sherlock's gravesite only seconds later. Seconds after that, two men bearing a collapsible stretcher raced across the lawn towards them. John was loath to give up his place at Sherlock's side, to relinquish the clammy wrist in his hand. But he rose from his crouch and moved out of their way, at the same time reciting what had happened, unthinkingly waving his bloodied hand as proof.

The two attendants checked Sherlock's vitals, and one reeled off his stats into a phone. With John's help, they loaded him onto the stretcher. John snatched up his jacket and hurried along behind them, keeping just far enough back to avoid becoming a hindrance. As he was hefted into the back of the ambulance, Sherlock let out a faint groan. John strained forward, but the man wearing the green epaulette, indicating that he was a clinician, speared John with a kindly but unyielding look. "Can't come with us, mate. Only fam—"

"Husband," John said crisply.

"Name?"

"John Watson."

The clinician consulted his phone, glanced up at John and back down at the screen. His expression morphed from one of clinical professionalism to something marginally welcoming. "Right. Up you come, Doctor Watson." John felt himself flush. What on earth had possessed him to proclaim himself Sherlock's husband, when his status as doctor would accord him even greater access? "Stay here by the foot of the trolley and keep out of the way until we're rolling, yeah?"

"Yeah." John joined them in the bay so the doors could be sealed, his internal quibbles tossed aside as he set his focus on Sherlock. The attendants adroitly rolled the unconscious man onto his side, and immediately dispatched his shirt and jacket with razor-sharp shears. The bloodied fabric went into a biohazard bag with a sick-sounding plop. They removed the soaked dressings more circumspectly, peeling tape and wrappings away from damaged skin, easing pieces free where blood had begun to clot, gloved hands revealing the raw, bruised mess that was Sherlock's back, inch by inch. He let out a small whimper once or twice, but his eyes remained closed, his body limp. Lacerations, some healed, some far more recent, crisscrossed the landscape of pale flesh, new stitches torn open. Where I grabbed him, John realized with a pinch of remorse. The clinician gave the go-ahead to his assistant to take the wheel, which opened space for John to offer his services as the driver made his way into the cab.

The ambulance rocked back down the lane to the street while they applied temporary replacement dressings. With John's help, the clinician raised Sherlock's shoulders so he could strip away the bloodied pad and slip a clean one into its place. They covered Sherlock with warmed blankets and strapped him down to minimize jostling.

The clinician's name, according to his identification badge, was Whidby. He chatted as he worked, whether for his own benefit or for John's, John did not know. But he was grateful for the running commentary, most of which he could follow just by the man's actions. It seemed quite clear that they had known what to expect and had prepared accordingly. John sent up silent, aggrieved thanks yet again to Mycroft. No matter what Sherlock might think about him, his brother was scarily efficient and, where Sherlock was concerned, unendingly protective. Whidby said that Sherlock's vitals were good and, as the hospital was only minutes away, he felt comfortable avoiding any further treatment for now.

"Good thing you were nearby."

Whidby was studying the screen on his phone. "Wasn't a coincidence. Some bloke named Mycroft Holmes contacted our super. Told us to wait at the cemetery."

"Oh. Right."

"Your husband's recent medical history just came through." Whidby was swiftly thumbing between screens. "According to this, he incurred these injuries while outside the country. Was hospitalized upon his return a couple of days ago, but released himself yesterday morning. DAMA." Whidby looked up, his expression coolly professional. "But you could have told me that, right?"

Discharge Against Medical Advice. Yes, John could have told him that, even without knowing the rest of it. Hospitals were for mere mortals, in Sherlock's opinion.

"Um, yeah. 'Course." He pulled a face. "He's a genius with the common sense of a two-year-old." Whidby chuckled in sympathy and returned to studying his phone.

Had Sherlock discharged himself in order to stage his return last night at the upmarket restaurant where he knew John would be dining? If so, he must have been aware that those reservations included a companion. And knowing that, he must have deduced the occasion for dining at that particular restaurant. He had never hesitated to interfere in John's romantic plans before. Why, then, had he departed last night without making his presence known?

John slid his hand under the blanket and curled it around Sherlock's ankle. The distal pulse was steady and strong now, and the flesh was warm. There was still a fine layer of moisture on his skin, whether from lying on the grass or the result of his bout of syncope. "Come on, Sherlock," John prodded, moving his hand in short strokes against Sherlock's ankle. "Time to—" But at that moment, Sherlock's eyelashes began to flutter, his brow twitched in a frown, and he woke, his breast swelling with a sudden sharp breath. John could feel him resisting the strap across his hips, the movement telegraphed down his leg. "John?" His voice was hoarse, anxious, and he immediately began to to paw at the oxygen mask on his face. His efforts were ably defeated by the clinician, who pulled his hand away and pushed it firmly but carefully down by his side.

"Right here." John spoke loudly so that he could be heard over the road noise and the siren. "I'm here, Sherlock."

Sherlock raised his head just enough to locate him, winced, and slumped back onto the headrest, all of the struggle going out of him. "Ambulance?"

"Yes. You were out for a few minutes. How are you feeling now?"

Sherlock blinked slowly, taking in his surroundings. When he turned to John again, he fixed the entire weight of his attention on him. Sherlock cocked his foot so that his ankle pressed more tightly in the curve of John's hand. John squeezed it and smiled encouragingly, all too aware that his expression must be one of helpless devotion.

Sherlock smiled tentatively back. "John—"

"Mr Holmes, I'd like to ask—"

Sherlock rocked his head to the side and regarded the hovering clinician with some annoyance. "You are?"

"Paul Whidby. Hospital's only a few minutes away. I'd like to know how you're feeling, too." He angled his stethoscope beneath the blanket and seated it on Sherlock's chest, one position soon followed by another.

Sherlock dismissed him with a scornful look and started tracking the strap across his chest, clearly searching for the release. "I don't need an ambulance." The clinician tapped Sherlock's hand and once more moved it to his side and resumed listening. Sherlock growled, "You can drop us at the curb."

Smiling affably, a smile that assured John that he would do no such thing, Whidby gave his head a shake. "Sorry, Mr Holmes." The blood pressure cuff around Sherlock's upper arm started inflating automatically, and the clinician raised his eyes to the readout. "Good to see you're awake. Your husband and I would very much like to know how you're doing. Do you remember losing consciousness?"

"I don't need—"

John squeezed Sherlock's ankle, drawing his attention. "Says the man who passed out on his own grave. You're bleeding, Sherlock. A lot of your stitches need replacing. Stop being a pillock and answer his questions."

"You could do it."

"Nope. No."

Whidby interrupted, "Mr Holmes—" Sherlock glared up at him. "I'll be better able to evaluate your condition if you would just answer a few questions."

"I was lightheaded," Sherlock snapped. "For a moment. This is overkill. Hospital, more so. I do not—"

"Sherlock." John gripped his ankle again, this time warningly. "Just answer him." He let some of his concern show on his face. "Please."

Sherlock's scowl contained multitudes: betrayal, vexation, frustration. "Fine. What else might you want to know, Clinician Whidby? My name is Sherlock Homes. My husband's name is John Watson. Doctor John Watson, who extols the artistry of his own sutures and could stitch my wounds and oversee my care in the comfort of our own home—if he were not intent upon making a point." Sherlock's voice was plangent with righteous indignation.

"Good try. Still no." John was pretty sure that Sherlock had referred to him as his husband simply to soften him up, and it had worked admirably, leaving him a little giddy and more than a little elated. But even after two years apart, John knew what a calculating sod Sherlock could be, and effortlessly read his objective in the pique that flashed across his eyes and the fierce working of his jaw muscles. Even as he lowered his lashes to evade John's reproving stare, he was probably assessing everything about his surroundings, including the speed of the vehicle, the proximity of the clinician, the tensile properties of the straps holding him in place, maybe even the seriousness of John's resolve. "Sherlock," he said brusquely, "you're bleeding, you're dehydrated, and you've ripped your stitches out. Quite a lot of stitches. You need fluids, possibly more antibiotics, and you'd probably sell your arse for some pain relief about now. Can't be done outside a hospital."

There was a gleam of bared teeth behind the face mask. Whidby noisily cleared his throat. His expression pleasantly neutral, he tucked his phone away. "He's right, you know." He patted his pocket, indicating his phone. "You've been through this before, according to your history. Only take a moment. What do you say?"

"Fine!" Sherlock hissed.

Whidby raised his hand half a meter above Sherlock's face, fingers extended.

"Three." Sherlock's eyes glinted mutinously. "Which I can see all too clearly. Nor am I suffering dizziness or nausea. Any longer." He then reeled off the day's date, his birthdate, John's birthdate—which came as a surprise to John, as that was surely deletable information—and concluded with a recitation of details regarding Whidby's physical condition, his personal life, and his work habits. When he was done, Whidby gave him a crooked smile. "You're that bloke; the one who threw himself off Bart's. Back from the dead, are you?"

"I'm beginning to wonder," Sherlock replied irritably.

Whidby chuckled. Sherlock's disgruntlement didn't seem to faze the clinician in the least, and John liked him for it. "Everything Doctor Watson said is true. You should listen to him."

Before Sherlock could retort, sure to be cruelly incisive, John tweaked his ankle. "Still brilliant."

That won the tiniest shadow of a smile, but then Sherlock sighed, all of his hauteur gone in an instant. "Mycroft is going to say he told me so."

"Well," John murmured, "Mycroft's the hero of the day, as far as I'm concerned. In fact, at the moment, I might love him more than I do you."

Sherlock grunted. "You could not possibly love Mycroft more than you do me."

John laughed, and it came from the heart. "Yeah, you're right. Always right." John took some pleasure from witnessing Sherlock outrage drain away. "Just do what you're told, yeah? You'll be home before you know it."

The ambulance made a sharp right turn and the siren went quiet. There was some swaying as the vehicle navigated the corner. Whidby set about disconnecting Sherlock from various monitors. By the time the ambulance rolled to a stop, he had sealed the biohazard bag, rolled up and stored extraneous tubing and wires, and checked Sherlock's straps as well as the placement of his oxygen mask. Typing something into his phone, he remarked absently, "Don't worry. I expect the other Mr Holmes will have you seen to toot sweet."

Sherlock's sigh of exasperation was audible even from behind his mask. "Tout de suite." Perhaps nothing reassured John more of Sherlock's well being than this, his capacity for nit-picking.

But Whidby's indefatigable grin was still in place. "Called an eggcorn, that. A patient told me."

Sherlock raised a cynical brow. "Malapropism."

John laughed. "Mondegreen." Faced with two sets of blank expressions, he explained, "Pretty much the same thing. Shows up in crossword puzzles?"

Sherlock was staring at him, his brow suddenly heavy with concentration, examining him as if there was something new about him, or something newly intriguing. Rubbing the heel of his palm against Sherlock's ankle, John mouthed, What?

Whatever he might have expected, it was not Sherlock saying, quite without artifice, "I have missed you so very, very much."

John's mouth fell open. But before he could muster his thoughts and cobble together even the most basic response—And me—the doors to the ambulance sprang open behind him. He didn't wait to be told to get out of the way and was on the pavement seconds before Sherlock's trolley was hustled out of the vehicle bay and onto the concrete floor. He followed in their wake, but not even his purported status as spouse or the fact that he was a doctor worked to his advantage here, and he was directed by a somewhat harried nurse to take a seat in the waiting area. "Thanks!" he called after Whidby. The clinician shot him a wave and a grin as he and his assistant wheeled Sherlock through the ambulance entrance doors.

An hour passed in the miserable confines of the waiting area. John read the informational posters on the walls, glanced through a handful of well-used magazines, flicked through the screens on his phone, and paced the perimeter of the cavernous space a half dozen times.

There were surprisingly few fellow sufferers, it apparently being one of those rare mostly incident-free days. John marked the staff rotation; diagnosed the unwell fidgeting in their chairs (colic, broken arm, asthma, sprained ankle); poked at stray lint on his trousers and smudges on the barely serviceable chair; and eventually, after the second hour, made his way to the nearest vending machine. He knew the coffee would be hopelessly awful and his stomach wasn't really in the mood for a snack. But he sacrificed a couple of coins for a pallid tea and a Twirl and took them to a seat at the back.

I have missed you so very, very much. The words looped endlessly in John's head, spoken in Sherlock's deepest tones. And the way he had looked at him, with overt affection, maybe even something like desire…. Was it possible?

My name is Sherlock Homes. My husband's name is John Watson. Doctor John Watson.

Eyes shut against the light, John hunched over his knees. At this time yesterday, his thoughts had been monopolized by all things Mary, the proposal and dinner to come, the celebration afterward at their flat. A single glimpse had upended everything. But the letter—the letter crinkled in his jacket pocket. This was not a dream. Sherlock was alive.

John sensed a presence. Absurdly lustrous shoes stood on the floor in front of him. He took a few seconds to compose his features and raised his head, knowing whose feet must be in those shoes. It was Mycroft, of course, his suit-clad arm extended, a large paper coffee cup in his hand. Inhaling the rich fragrance of freshly brewed coffee, John twitched a smile and accepted the offering. "Ta." He put the vending machine drink on the empty seat beside him and held up the Twirl in exchange.

Rather to his surprise, Mycroft plucked the vividly purple and yellow packet from John's fingers. According it a study befitting an ancient artefact, he gestured with his chin towards the sacrosanct area guarded by the admissions desk. "Come along, Doctor Watson. A place has been set aside for us."

"Oh—that's good. Great." John hurried to his feet, relieved to leave the waiting area behind. He would see Sherlock soon. He needed to see him soon, as much to prove to himself that this hadn't been some outlandishly detailed dream as to quell his paranoia regarding Sherlock's health, his well-being, his existence. They passed by the admissions clerks and through the large double doors unaccosted. After a short trek partway down a wide, long corridor comprising many small rooms that droned with muffled conversations behind closed doors, they came to a room which was apparently known to Mycroft.

"Sherlock will be a while, yet," he explained, ushering John inside. "They're a bit short-handed." John was familiar with the layout of the room: a bed, sink and counter, supply cupboard, two chairs, one with wheels for the attending physician. "And Sherlock did a thorough job of undoing his earlier treatment."

John sank into the wheeled chair. He raised the cup to his lips and reveled in steam laced with the full-bodied scent of Mycroft's special blend. Mycroft remained standing. John took a sip and almost moaned. "You can't get him moved to the head of the queue?"

"This is the NHS, a monolith even I dare not challenge."

"But you could if you weren't trying to teach him a lesson."

Mycroft's brows twitched as did his lips, a small acknowledgment that John had scored a hit. "My brother," he said sententiously, "still believes himself invincible. He will probably regret the loss of that jacket; he chose it especially to impress you."

John saluted him with his mug. "Thank you." At Mycroft's exaggeratedly opaque look, he spread his hands, careful not to spill a single drop. "For anticipating his stupidity. You know, the ambulance waiting round the corner."

"Not at all." Turning his concentration to breaching the candy wrapper, Mycroft at last lowered himself to perch on the other chair. "I understand that congratulations are in order." Of course Mycroft must know about Mary, had probably marked the first time they had slept together, the moment John had selected a ring. But the words—I'm not going back to Mary. I'm here, waiting for Sherlock—were still crowding his tongue when Mycroft drawled, "Is it to be Watson-Holmes or Holmes-Watson?"

John's brain locked up; he had forgotten the surreal nature of dealing with either of the Holmes brothers. He decided to go with something that sounded like the truth, even though Mycroft would easily see through it. "Saved cab fare." He allowed himself a small chuckle. "The ambulance clinician?"

"The assistant. I'll be recommending a review of patient privacy policies for him." The candy wrapper at last yielded to his probing, and Mycroft appeared inordinately pleased. "But you must know, Mummy will expect an invitation. As, of course, will I."

"Mycroft—" Pale eyes rested with faux benignity on John's face. John held the mug up, his smile as flat as his voice. "Really good coffee, this."

"Of course, there is the little matter of Mary Morstan, which must receive proper attention first."

Anger spun up like a firestorm, and John leaned into it, tension running across his shoulders; the left one twinged. "Leave her out of it."

Mycroft regarded him mildly, his long fingers delicately uncovering the length of chocolate. "Ah, but I'm afraid that I can't—"

Refusing to be intimidated, or cajoled, or schmoozed, or whatever this was, John demanded, "How long has Sherlock been back, Mycroft? And why was he allowed out in that state?"

Mycroft tutted dismissively. "The day before yesterday, early. And, do you really need to ask?"

John bared his teeth. "And the person—the people—responsible for his injuries?"

"Dealt with. As were the others—most of whom Sherlock managed on his own."

John nodded, as appeased as he could be under the circumstances. The compulsion to walk out of this tiny room and hunt down Sherlock right this minute was almost overpowering. The image of him in the cemetery, face paper white, eyes narrowed and glittering with pain, hung suspended in his mind, overlying the Sherlock he had seen on the forecourt of St Bart's, blood pooling about his head, his wrist still warm in John's hand. He needed Sherlock to be real. Breathing too fast, he made himself center his thoughts on the remembered solidity of Sherlock's ankle caught in the tight ring of his fingers, the pulse of life ticking beneath his thumb. Warm, alive, real.

"You might never ask, John, but you should know that Sherlock was, in fact, aware of your … personal situation while he was gone."

The knots in his stomach tightened a notch and John shot Mycroft a black look. Jerking his head slightly to the side, he forced himself to ask, "All of it?" The sick emptiness, the nightmares, the need for therapy, the bone-deep grief.

Appearing inhumanly calm, Mycroft replied smoothly, "Quite. I am only telling you this because—despite knowing that—it would be wrong for you to misdirect your anger towards him. You had to believe him dead so that others would believe it, too. While they believed it, we had the upper hand. But I am quite aware that it was terribly difficult for you."

John's jaw felt close to cracking, but he said nothing.

"You should also know that it wasn't Sherlock who came up with the plan, not alone anyway. He agreed to it only because you would have died otherwise—as simple as that. Unfortunately, we neither of us comprehended the true reach of Moriarty's network and fooled ourselves into thinking that Sherlock would be back in six months." Not home, John thought, back. Perhaps Mycroft had no sense of home, of the people who defined it. He let his head fall forward, chin on his chest, and breathed purposefully through his nose. Mycroft's voice took on a diamond-hard edge. "He wanted to get back to you, of course, to put an end to your bereavement. But your grief was what kept him going, and I used it—I used it, John—without compunction. It will sound cruel to you, indeed it was cruel, but it was what Sherlock needed to keep going, the incentive required whenever he flagged."

Shuddering, John raised his head, hoping that the tremor in his hands was not visible. "You monster."

"Yes. Even so, I underestimated his attachment to you. When he learned that you were considering marriage, he became reckless." Mycroft snapped a piece of chocolate between his teeth and chewed it, icily contemplative. "He was captured, an ill-starred occurrence that delayed his return by some weeks."

John wanted to claw that inhuman equanimity off Mycroft's face. "He was tortured!"

"Yes. I mistakenly thought that giving him that information would provide the final nudge he needed to conclude his business."

"Mycroft—!"

"It backfired. Sherlock paid for it. And I see that your anger is directed towards me now; where it should be."

"You—" John bit back an epithet. He could never understand how Mycroft could be so careless of Sherlock's well being, yet also so tremendously protective. "You think I'm angry at him?"

"Of course you are." Mycroft bit off another piece of chocolate and chewed. "He lied to you, he allowed you to suffer. Worst of all, he left you behind."

John put the cup on the counter. It came down harder than he intended, but the lid kept most of the contents contained. "It would've been nice to know. And he and I will be having words about that. But he's home, now, damn you." John bit his lip, his emotions churning too near the surface. He could not contain a huff of disbelieving laughter. "Alive. Do you think I give a shit about anything else, at all?"

"Well—" Mycroft smiled with serpent grace. "There is, as I mentioned earlier, Mary Morstan."

And just like that, John had to catch his breath. "No." He shook his head, and continued shaking it for a long moment. "No, there isn't. Not anymore. Not for me."

It was Mycroft's turn to appear disbelieving, but he expressed it with a single raised eyebrow and a mildly skeptical twist of the lips. Yet John knew that he had surprised the other man, which was confirmed when Mycroft stated with a hint of incredulity, "You didn't propose last night."

"How is that your business?" But sudden exhaustion overcame the seething anger—yes, he was angry, incandescently angry; but that hot emotion was entirely directed at the man in the room with him. John ran his hands through his hair and sucked in flat, antiseptic-scented air. When he was confident that he wouldn't shout, he said evenly, "Last night I was going to ask her to marry me. But I saw—not a ghost; I don't believe in ghosts. I saw someone who reminded me so much of Sherlock—never imagining in a million years that it could actually be him—and I … it was like waking up." He allowed himself a small, humorless laugh. "And I discovered that, even dead, Sherlock was more important to me than the woman I thought I was going to marry." How could he make this soulless man understand, when he was still coming to terms with all of this himself? "She's been kind to me, Mary. Helped me when I couldn't get out of my own head. And I don't want to hurt her, but—"

"John." The hair on the back of John's neck went up. Mycroft's voice had somehow become kindly, almost tender, and he was watching John too closely, with inscrutable calculation. Oh, God, John thought, and adrenaline flooded his system. "You asked how your relationship with Mary Morstan is my business—not those exact words, I grant you—but you must know that anyone or anything that puts my brother at risk is my business."

John felt his mouth fall open. "Mary! You can't be talking about Mary." To his dismay, pity appeared on Mycroft's face. "Christ!" John launched himself across the room, pacing, three steps one way, three steps back, all that the tiny room and its equipment would allow. "Christ," he repeated, and this time it came out as a pained groan. "You're going to tell me that she's some sort of criminal mastermind? Head of a trafficking ring? A spook for—?"

"Assassin."

John froze. He came slowly round and stared hard into Mycroft's face. "No. I don't believe you. No."

"Yes. Unfortunately, yes. But she is no longer a concern. She has been neutralized." At the sudden horror that spread over John's face, Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Not in that way. Returned to her keepers in America, though she may find her homecoming less than friendly. She slipped away years ago when they weren't paying attention and has been on their wanted list for a while. As far as anyone here is concerned, she has returned to care for her very ill, if nonexistent, mother. Her things are gone from your flat, your surgery has already accepted her resignation, and she, and those who hired her, no longer pose a threat."

Assassin! John brought both hands up to rub his eyes, his mouth, his jaw. It seemed as if his mind would never start ticking over again. When at last he spoke, it was with the calm of numbness. It did not remain so for long. "We were together almost six months. I slept with her, Mycroft! Couldn't you have told me this half a year ago?" Mycroft winced as John's outraged voice soared into the operatic range.

Mycroft let out a dramatic sigh. "As I may have mentioned, I have been rather busy with other concerns, my brother chief among them. My resources have been equally overextended. When your situation came to my attention—"

"When?"

"Last night. I at once took steps to—"

"I was going to tell her when I got home that I was ending it." That was a conversation he no longer need have; he could not deny that the relief was immense. He giggled dementedly. What would Mary have done when he told her that they were through? When he explained? "Was it me?" he asked Mycroft, imagining sweet, funny Mary, dressed like a ninja, holding a gun on him, her finger on the trigger. He was almost breathless with laughter. "Was I her target?"

"No." Mycroft sighed again. "Sherlock."

Of course. Somehow she must have known that Sherlock was alive. All this time. "Mycroft, you giant wanker," John exclaimed, more as a complaint than an insult. He inhaled raggedly, all the ugly amusement burned out of him. "And now?" His voice shook a little. "Is he safe? Is Sherlock finally safe?"

Mycroft did not immediately answer. His eyes were intense, pale blue, coldly dissecting. Frustration made John want to shout. What was it about the Holmes brothers that made answering a simple question such a hardship? At last Mycroft seemed to come to a decision and his features mildly curdled, his equivalent of a friendly demeanor. But before he could utter a sound, there came a tap at the door. Mycroft, nearer the door, drew it open at once. A junior doctor poked her head inside and scanned the two men. "Mr Watson?"

John came to attention. "That's me."

The woman gave him a curiously guarded look, and worry instantly dumped into John's belly. But before he could grow properly anxious, she smiled tightly and said, "Your husband is ready to see you."

The shadow at John's shoulder produced an abrupt but quickly muffled cough. John said breathlessly, "Good." Casting a swift warning scowl in Mycroft's direction, he repeated, "Good." Sherlock's brother merely raised his brows, expression carefully neutral, and murmured, "I'll just arrange the car, shall I? How long before his release, doctor?"

"About twenty minutes." She slanted that examining look over John again and stepped back into the hallway. "With me, please."

"John."

With a hand propping open the door, John impatiently glanced back.

But Mycroft only smiled his dainty smile and said, "The answer to your question is, yes. He is safe. Until he puts himself in danger, yet again."

Relaxing all at once, John nodded and whipped around to hurry after the doctor.

As soon as he had fallen into step beside her, she began to speak. "Your husband is in a great deal of discomfort, but has refused anything stronger than paracetamol, though we have some options despite his problematic history. The local anesthetic we used to treat his wounds is likely wearing off even now. Ice packs and lying prone are his best options without other meds, at least for the first few days."

"All right." Hearing Sherlock referred to as his husband made John want to start giggling again, but nervously. Had Sherlock laughed when he heard it, too? Amused laugh, eye-rolling laugh, horrified laugh? Had he even noticed? "Did he say why?"

She stopped, indicating that they were outside the appropriate treatment room and put her hand on the handle. "He wants to go home."

Warmth bloomed inside him, and suddenly everything was good, fine, brilliant. "Okay. That's doable." She pushed the door open and there, there was Sherlock. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, still impossibly, perfectly alive. Shoulders squared, only his head bent forward, he was attempting to oversee tremulous fingers as they buttoned the too large shirt swamping his lean frame. The shirt was a fresh one, undoubtedly provided by Mycroft. John breathed his name and that dark curly head came up, too quickly if the spasm across his drawn features was any indication.

The doctor continued to talk while John strode across the room, reaching out to take over. He listened to her with half an ear as he gently lowered Sherlock's arms to his sides, all too aware of that wide, hopeful gaze searching his face as he gripped Sherlock's wrists and stared, enthralled, back at him. "All right?"

"Can we go home now?" Sherlock sounded fractious and, painfully to John's ears, a little fragile. Although it had been two years, John recognized that this wasn't one of his facades, put on to gain sympathy or even attention. The new stitching must hurt like the devil.

"Mycroft's sorting the car."

"Gentlemen," the doctor interposed sharply, "it is important that you—"

"We heard you," Sherlock interrupted her curtly. "Rest. Reduced activity for at least a week. No lifting of any kind. Increased fluid intake. Oral and topical antibiotics. Absolutely no sexual activity." His eyes glittered. John recognized that look; Sherlock was spoiling for a fight. His voice was smooth and treacherous as he asked, "Did I leave anything out?"

The woman's mouth formed a hard line. Ignoring Sherlock, she turned towards John and continued in the same sharp tone, "It's imperative, Mr Watson, that he be allowed to heal."

She was practically bristling, John realized, and there was something off in her tone that only now began to register. Either he had managed to annoy her in under five minutes, Sherlock had offended her while she was tending his wounds (a distinct possibility), or she was hours deep in an unpleasant shift and her bedside manner was losing nuance. Assuming a professional but polite manner, he said, "It's Doctor Watson. And I will see to him."

From the region of John's shoulder there came a low dark chuckle. He had forgotten how that sound always started in his ears but ended up manifesting in an altogether different form beneath his breastbone, sometimes lower. "John," Sherlock drawled, "Don't be dense. She thinks you did this to me."

John's hands, fingers still gripping the plackets of his shirt, pressed against Sherlock's chest. He sucked in a breath of dismay. The junior doctor frowned at them both, meeting John's testy stare head on. But good sense came on board and John expelled that same breath with a gruff sound. As exasperated as he was pleased, he returned to manipulating the buttons. "Good, that's good. They should question injuries like these."

"For the record, he didn't do it," Sherlock informed her, and to John's surprise, he spoke with a fair degree of civility. "This man does not approve of torture in any form, and I am the last person he would allow to suffer it—had it been in his power to do so." He looked directly into John's face. They were rarely eye to eye like this, their height disparity typically putting John at a disadvantage. But now he could see the open affection in Sherlock's eyes, and a reflection of his own hungry disbelief that they were actually here, together. Smiling ruefully, Sherlock finished, "And of course you cannot know this, but had it been him, you would never have found my body."

John couldn't repress a giggle. "Stop it." There was a cardigan, finely woven out of cashmere or something equally luxurious, lying folded at the foot of the bed. John dealt speedily with shaking it open and loosening the sleeves. It was thick and warm and would suffice until Sherlock reached home. Summoning a tired smile for the junior doctor, John held open one arm of the cardigan. "Ignore him." To Sherlock he said, "Can you manage if I hold it for you?" To which Sherlock replied, "Of course." But he worked his way into the sleeves with stifled snarls and clenched brows as movement stretched the muscles in his back. Pain glazed his eyes before they were halfway done. Resolutely not nannying, John provided what help he could, held his breath, and winced nearly as much and as often as Sherlock.

When at last the cardigan was in place, John clinically took note of the other man's rough breathing and unhealthy complexion. He snagged the half full glass of water off the bedside table and positioned the straw between Sherlock's lips, unmoved by his black look. "Written instructions? Meds?" he asked the junior doctor, not taking his eyes off his patient, who was, for a wonder, acting sensibly.

"On the mobile cart to the side of the door, along with Mr Holmes's personal effects." John cast a look over his shoulder. He spotted the cart and the bag, a small one; so, nothing of Sherlock's clothing, only his watch, wallet, whatever else had been in his pockets. Meeting the woman's eyes, he found that her demeanor had changed. While it was clear that she hadn't entirely made up her mind about him, possibly both of them, it appeared that she no longer actively thought John a villain, for which he was grateful. "The paperwork has been expedited, by the way. No need to stop at Discharge on your way out." She tucked her tablet into her pocket. "If there should be anything else— Well, if there is anything else, you're a doctor. You'll know what to do."

Breathing more normally, Sherlock said tartly, "And we'll have sex as we like. He is my husband, you know."

Biting his lip to keep from laughing again, John tipped his head in apology. "Thank you. He's never been a good patient."

The junior doctor pursed her lips, seeming to consider her words. "You should listen to your doctor, Mr Holmes." John could hear the weariness in her voice. "Both of us. Good day, gentlemen."

As the door closed behind her, Sherlock's forehead came to rest against John's shoulder, as it had this morning when he had passed out in the cemetery—another life and a thousand years ago—and his hands lay loosely on John's hips. "Did we get married while I was unconscious?"

Shifting closer so that Sherlock could lean more heavily on him, John set the glass aside and continued the task at hand. "Nope. That sort of thing is actually frowned upon, you know."

"Then why is everyone calling you my husband?"

"Marriage of convenience?" John suggested lightly. He tapped a knuckle against Sherlock's breastbone. "You've been saying it, too."

"I heard you. At the cemetery." He seemed to anticipate John's reaction and explained, "I wasn't pretending, I swear it; just … fading in and out, like a bad radio signal." He pressed his nose into John's neck, his warm breath and soft curls indescribably distracting. "I presumed that you had a reason, so I didn't deny it. And I didn't—of course, I don't mind."

Sherlock's admission soothed something still off balance in John's heart. It was good, he thought, that Sherlock recognized that trust between them was fragile, at least on John's part, and would be, at least for a while. "Access. You know, to the ambulance; and to be here, now. Otherwise it'd be Mycroft buttoning your shirt." Sherlock's opinion of that was coarse and to the point. John let it wash over him, essentially unheard, because something had occurred to him. He snorted a small laugh, stirring Sherlock's hair; Sherlock shivered. "That bastard, your brother. He expected it, didn't he? It was in Whidby's brief, my being your husband."

"Of course he did. It's Mycroft." Then Sherlock whispered into John's shoulder, "But what of your intended?"

Leaving the last button undone, John dropped his hands to Sherlock's knees. He wasn't sure who was leaning on whom now. "Well," he replied amiably, "according to Mycroft, she's an assassin."

Sherlock's head came up slowly, his eyes searching John's face; first, it seemed, for confirmation, then, undoubtedly, for signs of unhappiness. John's badly repressed giggle undid him, and within seconds they were clinging to each other, snorting and laughing. Only Sherlock's wheezing gasps of "Stop it! John! Ow!" reminded him that he was supposed to be the responsible one here, and he tried to sober up, though it took some effort.

"Sorry." Briskly rubbing the heels of his hands up and down Sherlock's arms, he surreptitiously dragged his cheeks against Sherlock's ludicrously lush cardigan. His tears—stupid tears that had come out of nowhere—would never be noticed. "Hush. Didn't mean to make you laugh. Sorry."

Sherlock's breath steadied. With immense tenderness he murmured, "Only you, John Watson."

"Yeah." John encircled Sherlock's wrists with his fingers and cleared his throat. "I saw you last night; you know, when you were leaving the restaurant. Didn't believe it was you, of course. I mean, how could it be, you were dead." Even with Sherlock here in front of him, so close that his breath warmed his cheek, those words made John falter. "But from that moment, well, the whole idea of getting married, of marrying her—" He foundered.

Sherlock hummed, and John felt that in his chest, too. "Yes?"

"Couldn't do it." His shoulders rose and fell. "So here am I, married to a dead man instead."

Sherlock's tiny, cherubic smile could have graced the face of an angel. "Problem?"

"Only if you decide to divorce me, I guess."

"Never." And Sherlock kissed him.

For the briefest of instants, John did not react at all. But then, with a small, broken sound that seemed to originate in the depths of his soul, he parted his lips and melted into Sherlock's kiss. He had dreamt of this, imagined this, daydreamed this well before Sherlock had died.

He was slow to remember where they were, and his reluctance to withdraw seemed to match Sherlock's. This was not the time, nor the place, to indulge themselves, but by God John wanted to continue—and it was evident in Sherlock's heavy-lidded gaze that he did as well. "Later, yeah?"

Sherlock studied him as if he were the greatest puzzle he had ever encountered. "What have you done with my John Watson?"

"It was past time for him to be brave."

"By choosing to become gay? And dissociative?"

John shrugged. "Baby steps."

"John? Seriously?"

John bit his lip. Amongst the many one-sided conversations he had had with Sherlock when he was dead, this one had easily been the hardest, even held in the safety of his own mind. "I had to admit to myself what everyone else already knew, that we were more than friends. That I was in love with you. But it wasn't easy, Sherlock. Not with my upbringing, not with— And I couldn't be sure you were even interested." Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John dug his fingers into his arm, harder than he intended, then stroked it again to soothe any hurt. "But I was getting there, well before you bloody swan-dived off that damn building. If things had continued as they were—"

"You do want this? That's all I want to know."

John allowed Sherlock to see the truth in his eyes. "Yes."

"And you—? All right, one more thing." Sherlock hesitated, and his eyes slid away, evasive. "You've tested it?"

Probably because of the sudden images flooding his brain, John assumed that he was asking about risky sexual practices. But he had said, "You've tested it?" not "You've been tested?" and all at once he understood. "Yeah." He waggled his brows and gave him a cheeky grin. "I've tested it."

Sherlock looked resigned. "Lucky him. Or, realistically, them, I suppose."

"Oi." John applied a short, but very gentle kiss to his mouth. He wanted to wrap him close, so close that no one could ever hurt him again. But he would have to save that for when Sherlock was healed. There would be so much more, when he was healed. "I know you prefer a large sample size, but in this case you'll have to make do with two. The two we just … sampled."

Sherlock's face slowly brightened. "Ah. Well, then. Something to work on. You do know how I love to collect data." He quirked a brow. "Take me home, John?"

"Just waiting for your bro—"

"Here." The door had opened and Mycroft was entering with a wheelchair. John's cheeks warmed. Mycroft's impeccable timing could not have been the result of coincidence.

Sherlock regarded Mycroft challengingly. "I can walk."

"Hospital regulations," John countered. "Right. Slip forward. I've got you."

Between them, John and Mycroft maneuvered Sherlock into the chair. There were a few unavoidable twists and stretches, each followed by hisses and gasps, but Sherlock was settled before any real damage could be done. John fetched the packet off the mobile cart and set it in Sherlock's lap. Sherlock grunted but bit back any other protest. His face had lost all color and there was a waxy, breathless look to him that John didn't like, but which he knew to be expected.

"The car in the forecourt will convey you to Baker Street," Mycroft said, surveying his brother closely. "I've taken the liberty of informing Mrs Hudson that you are taking up residence once more. She was pleased—once she got past her vapors." He wrinkled his nose. "And there may be strong words once you are more yourself."

"Mycroft," John didn't try to disguise his alarm. "Is she all right?"

"Of course she is, Doctor Watson. One of England's staunchest, Mrs Hudson. The flat has been prepared for habitation. You will find fresh provisions in the kitchen, clean bedding and towels, and absolutely no dust." He smiled thinly at Sherlock. "The remains of your clothing were dropped off at your cleaners. From there they will go to your tailor for repair, if they are at all salvageable." He turned towards John. "I hope you won't mind that I also had a few of your things delivered to Baker Street. You will be overseeing Sherlock's immediate care, will you not?"

"Not letting him out of my sight."

"Very well." Mycroft gazed down at his brother, who had been observing this byplay with dark amusement. "Something to say, Sherlock?"

"Of course he's coming home with me," Sherlock replied. "Why would you even ask?"

"Actually, I was wondering whether you are ready to quit this dismal place."

"Past ready."

A moment of silent communication stretched between them and, for a blink-and-miss-it instant, Mycroft's face warmed with genuine fondness. "Then I shall leave you two to get on. I'll be by in a couple of days, when we might speak at greater length about your recent activities."

"Got it."

Mycroft did not have the theatricality of a billowing coat, but he did have presence. As a result, the room felt as though some of the air had been sucked out of it as the door closed behind him. Clutching the paper sack in his lap, Sherlock withdrew into himself a little, a consequence, John thought, of both the misery of his injuries and the letting down of his guard. In his too-large, cozy cardigan he appeared nothing like the public's image of Sherlock Holmes.

John leaned over him and kissed the top of his head. "Thank you for not being dead."

Sherlock looked up at him, all eyes and hopefulness. In his deepest tones, he said, "Least I could do."

"Shall we go home, then?"

"Please."