"Good morning, John. You're up early. 'Yes, I was having troubles sleeping. Didn't want to wake you by tossing and turning.' Oh I am sorry to hear that. Anything I can do to help? 'No, it's fine, shoulder's a bit stiff, that's all.' Is that all? I was rather worried because this is the third time this week it's kept you up. 'Honestly, Sherlock, it's fine. Don't worry about it. It'll be right as rain soon enough.' Right as rain? Who says that? But I am glad to hear it will be fine 'soon enough' because it's not at all been plaguing you since we– got back. Has it?"

John set his coffee aside with a sigh, ignoring the lingering aches that had, in fact, got him up and out of bed to prevent his restlessness from spreading. Between the two of them, they weren't managing much in the way of a good night's sleep lately; he wished he could claim it was for enjoyable reasons. It wasn't staying up that was the problem – although there had been some of that – but staying asleep.

He would have considered moving back up to his old room – temporarily, just to give them each a break – only he knew precisely how that would be interpreted after the revelation about Irene Adler. He still wasn't thrilled about that, but three days alone in the wilderness thinking Sherlock was dead was enough to offset at least some of the anger.

And sleeping upstairs might make it more restful for him, but if Sherlock had a bad night, it would only make it that much worse for the detective.

"It's fine, Sherlock," he said, realizing he was echoing the one-sided conversation Sherlock had just had for them. The detective subjected him to a penetrative glare, its intensity somewhat reduced by the fact that he was in nothing but his dressing gown and a pair of purple silk boxers, and had obviously fussed hair back into something approaching reasonable before storming out of the bedroom.

"It's not fine," Sherlock snapped.

"Of course it's been bothering me," John sighed. "But I've got the sling and it will be fine – it just needs some time. You saw the x-rays," he added, for good measure.

Sherlock glowered at him; John let it slide right by. Unusually for him, he'd had it seen to as soon as Sherlock had mentioned it, three days after they'd returned. It had been jarring to break his fall with his left hand, the shock shuddering up his arm and rooting into his shoulder, but it wouldn't have been as bad if not for the other fall, the one he hadn't initially told Sherlock about.

He'd slipped – when on his own – and tumbled a short way down a hill. It had left bruises, but compared to everything else they'd gone through – particularly Lestrade and Sherlock, with so little food and the DI's injury – it had hardly warranted mentioning.

Until the discomfort hadn't dissipated with the slowly fading bruises and the switch from sleeping on hard, cold ground to a warm, familiar bed. Muscle strain hadn't been a surprise, but the small, dark, radiolucent line on his upper humerus had been. A stress fracture – but a small one, and nothing that warranted serious medical intervention beyond the sling, which he could remove to shower and dress, so long as he was careful.

If he'd gone by the look on Sherlock's face at the news, John might have expected a death sentence. Thunderous was the best adjective he could come up with, but even it seemed pale in comparison with the darkness that had clouded the detective's features.

Even now, over a week later, Sherlock was distracted – reclusive, almost. Refusing to take cases – ostensibly because John needed looking after, which had been fine for about two days, but now that John was back at work, they both knew it was a hollow excuse. He wasn't even speaking to anyone at the Met, except for Lestrade ('He usually avoids wasting my time altogether') and Hassard ('She's moderately clever, I suppose'), and he wasn't taking work from them. He was still eating less than John would like, and hadn't regained all of the weight he'd lost, both in Wales and during the nine months he'd been away.

Getting him out of the flat was an odd struggle – he was wont to do it at random intervals, when he remembered that leaving would frustrate Mycroft's surveillance. To say their relationship was complicated to begin with was an understatement; now John wished he had a map to navigate all its shifting moods and nuances. He'd never seen Mycroft so genuinely concerned – terrified, really – for his brother's well being, but finding out Adler was alive had sparked something in the elder Holmes brother that had led what would have been – for anyone else – a shouting match.

For Sherlock and Mycroft, that meant cold, cutting comments that went beyond their normal barbs and feints into deeply personal, vicious remarks that had left John speechless.

If he'd ever spoken to Harry like that, she'd have rightly never talked to him again.

Justified as Mycroft's ire was, John had never expected that kind of cruelty from him, and he'd intervened, using his best captain's bark to get the elder Holmes out of his house – reminding Mycroft that was his house, and that he wasn't above calling the police. By the time John managed to get Mycroft to leave, Sherlock had entrenched himself in some experiment and had refused to speak for hours.

The day after that verbal battle, Sherlock had accompanied John to work, setting himself up in the doctor's office and refusing to leave until John had seen the last of his patients. Two days later, following as many sleepless nights, he'd found Sherlock perched on the sofa, a small, velvet-lined case open on the coffee table in front of him, with a full needle resting inside of it.

Even the memory of it tightened something around his heart, but it hadn't been the drug John expected. A sedative, which he'd given to Sherlock once he'd figured out exactly what it was and double-checked the dosage. They'd slept on the sofa, Sherlock curled up half on top of John.

Now more than ever, he wished Mrs. Hudson were here. John felt like they were both adrift without her, and he'd found himself in her flat once, looking for her before realizing what he was doing. Sherlock needed her fussing and mothering, and John frankly could have used it, too. The house felt like a fraction of their home, and it didn't help that Sherlock was refusing most visitors, except the ones John imposed on him.

Without clients being allowed to call, there were fewer cases available, and those that came via email or by the post were summarily dismissed. Part of John considered that getting new tenants for Mrs. Hudson's flat would help – although he couldn't imagine that anyone would stand up to an interview with Sherlock Holmes right now.

"There's still coffee in the pot," he said, nodding toward the kitchen. "Fancy breakfast? We could go out."

"I have no desire to be dragged all over the city to satisfy your appetite," Sherlock snapped, stalking into the kitchen, the blue dressing gown billowing behind him only accenting his frame. "And stop it – that appetite doesn't need satisfying, either."

"I didn't say anything," John commented, raising an eyebrow.

"You don't have to," Sherlock replied. "Your pheromones are practically shouting it."

"You can't smell those," John pointed out. "Not consciously."

"Maybe you can't," Sherlock sniffed.

"Nor can you," John said, lips twitching into a smile, because this was more of a Sherlock strop, petulant but not serious. "No matter how smart you are."

Sherlock returned to flop into his chair, managing not to scald himself with hot coffee in the process, and tangled his feet around John's, long toes tugging at the cuffs of his trousers.

"Don't go to work today."

John raised his eyebrows; it was an oddly direct request from Sherlock – no fault found with John's job, no hesitant 'please' tacked on, no faked guile about anything else they could be doing.

"I have to," John sighed. "One of us has to be making money."

Sherlock's lips parted and John could see the ready retort, that Mycroft would deal with any financial details, but it was withheld as Sherlock pursed his lips, grey eyes skittering away.

"Or you could take a case," John said. "What about the one that came in the post yesterday?"

"Boring," Sherlock scoffed.

"Did you even read it?"

An envelope was plucked off a nearby table and ripped open – John refrained from commenting. Sherlock's eyes skimmed it before he tossed the paper aside.

"Boring," he repeated.

"Care to elaborate?"

With a sigh, Sherlock plucked the letter off the floor.

"'Dear Mr. Holmes, I'm so sorry to trouble you, but perhaps you could help with a matter I've never been able to resolve. Some years ago, a precious gemstone of mine went missing, and no amount of investigation has been able to trace its whereabouts. I realize that, after all this time, it's unlikely to be found, but it was very dear, and if anyone could find it, I believe it would be you. Yours,' et cetera, et cetera."

"Boring?" John asked. "What's boring about it?"

"It's been stolen and resold several times or maybe he's just an idiot and put it in the wrong safe or binned it with the rest of the rubbish."

"This kind of puzzle is right up your street, Sherlock."

"He's French," the detective muttered.

"Oh, I see. I didn't realize we were at odds with the French again."

"Don't be absurd, John. I'm not travelling all the way to France to deal with a gem that probably fell victim to some employee with sticky fingers."

"Could be interesting," John commented. "Who is he?"

"No idea," Sherlock replied. "Some Frenchman."

"Well that settles it then," John said.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, narrowed gaze honing in on John like a laser.

"One of us has to make some money," John repeated, bending to press a kiss on Sherlock's forehead as he passed, rewarded by long fingers twining into his jumper, letting go only reluctantly.

"You own this house," Sherlock pointed out.

"Yes, but with the amount you blow things up, I need to keep up with the insurance. You can stay here and screech on your violin all day."

"Screech on my–" Sherlock began, shooting John a dark glare when the doctor grinned. "No, I think I'll do better than that. I'm coming with you."

"'Morning, John," Sarah said, casting a slightly puzzled look at Sherlock, who was looming behind him like a pale, irritated shadow. They'd be cabbing it home tonight; John was sure they'd almost been kicked off the tube on the way over for Sherlock's uninterrupted assessment of the other passengers, and he didn't want to risk it again.

Or put up with it again.

"You're not ill, are you?" Sarah asked.

"No, he's his usual cheery self," John replied, ignoring the scowl aimed at the back of his head.

"I've work to do," Sherlock said coldly. John shot her a please-indulge-me look, which she returned with an arched eyebrow and a sigh. The brief flicker in her eyes gave away that she was doing it because of Wales; he could have kissed her in relief, if that wouldn't have given Sherlock entirely the wrong idea.

"Keep out from underfoot," Sarah warned him. "And leave the diagnosing to us, please. We know what we're about."

"So John insists on reminding me," Sherlock answered, but followed John willingly, commandeering his office computer immediately, only relinquishing it reluctantly so John could check his patient schedule.

The patient load kept him busy, but he looked in on Sherlock whenever he had a moment; the detective seemed immersed in some internet research, and John privately hoped it was about something other than Irene Adler. For all of Sherlock's protestations that his attention wasn't her goal, and she didn't have it anyway, the doctor was fairly certain she had a pretty prominent place in that incredible mind of his.

He wanted Sherlock to work, of course, but this… John wasn't sure it was work. He'd seen Sherlock give it his all – literally – for a case. Jump off of a roof, fake his own death, live as a shadow for nine months, cut off from everyone he loved and everything he knew.

The motivations behind that were understandable. He still wasn't thrilled about how it had turned out, but he understood the necessity. Right now, he didn't know what the reasons behind this case – if he could call it that – were.

He wondered if any of them did.

In these moments, John longed for life to go back to normal. To rewind everything back to the day before Moriarty broke into the Tower, to let them settle back into their routine and their ignorance of what was to come.

Snap out of it, Watson, he told himself, giving his head a sharp shake as he left an exam room, dropping the updated chart at the desk. It was too easy to dwell on the negative, and let the positive go unremarked. The night before last, they'd both slept well, and John had awoken first to watch as Sherlock drifted back to consciousness, grace and intellect flowing back into limbs and digits before he even opened his eyes.

That was something. No one else in the world got to see that.

"John."

The closeness of Sherlock's voice matched his sudden presence; John had been alone then immediately hadn't been, the detective towering over him, expression verging on a glare.

"Sherlock. Yeah."

"I'm going to the shops. To get a few things."

"Um– all right."

"From the shops."

"Yeah, I did get that the first time," John said. "What things?"

"Things. Things we need. Milk."

"I don't think we need milk."

"Of course we need milk, we always need milk, I'll get milk."

"Sherlock–"

"I'll be home before you," the detective assured him, voice carrying over his shoulder as he strode away. "Mrs. Levins has a gall bladder infection, not kidney stones, and needs to stop treating herself with herbal 'remedies'. I'll get biscuits, too, of course."

John passed his good hand over his face when the door to the waiting room swung closed behind the detective, and took a moment to lean against the wall before seeking Sarah out.

"Can I have ten minutes?" he asked. "Shoulder." The white lie made him feel somewhat guilty, especially at the warm concern on her face.

"Of course. Do you need the sling adjusted?"

"No, it's fine," John replied with a slight smile. "Thanks." He ducked into his mercifully empty office, not even bothering with the computer – whatever Sherlock had been doing would be untraceable by his standards. The sigh of relief at getting off his feet and propping his left arm – carefully – on his desk wasn't feigned.

He pulled out his mobile and sent a quick text to Lestrade.

You've got to get him a case. Something. Anything.

I'd love to, Lestrade sent back. Can't talk him round to it. Everything I've got is either boring or obvious. Or both.

John heaved a sigh, the exhalation ending on a slight wince at the twinge in his shoulder.

Haven't really got anything up his street right now, either, Lestrade added.

No one has, John thought, drumming his fingers against the desk. The chime of a new text distracted him – coming from Mycroft almost tempted him to ignore it.

Could you please convince Sherlock to stop hacking into secured government databases?

I doubt it, John replied. He's got to do something.

Finding Irene Adler is not his purview.

You're the one who wanted him to in the first place.

And now he needs to stop. John could almost hear the aggrieved sigh dripping from Mycroft's message.

You can't control everything he does.

Someone's got to, John.

He drummed his fingers on the desk again, chewing on his lower lip, then replied:

We've decided to have a baby.

Predictably, his phone rang less than ten seconds later.

"Please tell me you're joking. Baker Street is no place for a child."

"Making a point, actually," John said.

"And what is this rather poorly made point?"

"That he can make his own bloody choices. That you can't manipulate all the outcomes."

"That's what I do, John."

"Then why in the bloody hell did you introduce them in the first place?" John snapped. "For god's sake, she's Jim Moriarty in heels! Maybe slightly less dangerous – although I'm really starting to rethink that assessment now. What did you think would happen, Mycroft?"

"I thought he'd do the job given to him. As he always does. Or used to do, at any rate."

"Yeah, well, he's not you, is he?"

"More's the pity."

John swallowed hard, resisting comment.

"Do you know why police officers aren't permitted to work cases that connect to their personal lives or to their partners?" Mycroft asked, as if casually enquiring if John had noted rain in the weather forecast. "That kind of emotional connection can be messy. Mistakes can be made."

"Good thing you handed off the search to someone else when we were missing then, isn't it?" John demanded. He heard Mycroft sigh, but knew he'd hit a mark – Sherlock's brother hadn't been willing to trust anyone else with that investigation.

"Out of everyone you know, Mycroft, you know he's the best person to find her. He understands how she thinks."

"I know quite a lot of people, John."

"And it's still true," John retorted.

"Unfortunately, she also seems to know how he thinks," Mycroft said.

Maybe not as much as we all thought, John mused, pursing his lips to keep the comment to himself.

"And he's not made any significant progress."

"No more than you."

"Now how would you know that?"

"Because if you had, you wouldn't be obliquely asking me about his. Leave it, Mycroft. I'm not worried about where his loyalties lie." He rung off before Mycroft could say anything more – or detect the lie.

It wasn't exactly a lie, not entirely. If really pressed, John trusted Sherlock to make the right choice. He'd learned his lesson.

Absolutely.

Almost definitely.

Probably.

With a deep sigh, John pushed himself back to his feet, put on his best sympathetic smile, and went back to work.