Author's note: This is a sequel to "That Might Have Been My Fate". I would highly recommend you read that first, but it was mainly about John meeting Moran instead of Sherlock and therefore ending up working for Moriarty against his will. John ultimately shot Moriarty at the pool and almost dies because Moran shot him in the chest. It ended with John moving in with Sherlock at 221 B.

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John was a lot happier than he deserved to be, at least in his opinion. He had been the employee of a consulting criminal (true, he had shot him, but still, he didn't think that evened out everything he'd done), he'd kidnapped several people who clearly didn't deserve it, he'd come running simply because the favourite sniper of the consulting criminal, Sebastian Moran, had asked him to. And despite all of that, he was living with Sherlock Holmes at 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock had asked him to move in. Sherlock wanted to be his friend (or whatever he called it), despite the fact that he'd almost betrayed him – no, not almost. He had betrayed him, had done what Moriarty told him to do, had kidnapped the hostages –

And yet –

In the end, he had chosen Sherlock. He had chosen Sherlock's side, knowing that it would not only result in his death, but Harry's too, he had shot the consulting criminal –

And got a bullet in the chest for his troubles.

According to Sherlock, his life had been in the balance for over a day after he'd been shot. And the consulting detective should know, considering he had spent every minute in the hospital, first waiting for information, then in his room, praying (or hoping, or whatever Sherlock did when normal people did either) for him to wake up. And he'd asked him to move in with him. No, not really asked – he'd decided that John should move in with him. And the doctor had obeyed, because –

It felt right. It felt wonderfully right, and he had felt safe and at home at 221B Baker Street long before he'd even entertained the possibility (long before there even had been the possibility) of moving in with Sherlock. But there he was, living with the consulting detective, recuperating from the gunshot wound in his breast. He couldn't have been happier.

He knew it was strange; he knew he would be considered crazy by most people; but he couldn't help it. He and Sherlock had formed a bond, a bond even John couldn't explain, the moment they had met, a bond that had made him defy the most dangerous man (or maybe the second most dangerous man, he couldn't forget about Mycroft, according to Sherlock) he'd ever met, although he had been sure that it would lead to his death, to his sister's death –

As long as it meant that Sherlock was safe.

But Sherlock hadn't run or chased Moran (as John had, to be honest, sure he would). He had stayed with him. He had looked after him, even though there was nothing he could do. And he had been there when John woke up.

So, all of a sudden (or at least, it seemed sudden to John, which it really shouldn't have, considering his life in the past few months) he was living with a consulting detective.

And his life was every bit as exciting as he'd always wanted it to be, without admitting it. Even though he could do very little in the beginning.

A week after he'd woken up, he'd been so bored of the hospital that not even Sherlock had been able to ignore it. The consulting detective had talked to his brother – although he'd never admit that he'd asked Mycroft for a favour – and John had been discharged after just thirteen days (three of which he'd spent unconscious). By this time, everything he possessed had already been transferred to 221 B, and Mrs. Hudson had been very excited to meet him.

She had been waiting for them at the front door when the cab arrived in Baker Street, Sherlock (uncharacteristically) helping John out of the car. She'd beamed when she saw the doctor.

"You must be John. I'm Mrs. Hudson, your landlady – Sherlock told me you were arriving today, so I made tea. I'll bring it up as soon as you're settled. I have a couple of biscuits, too – but just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper".

John had looked at Sherlock, raising an eyebrow, as she shuffled back inside her flat, mist likely to look after the kettle, and the consulting detective had shrugged his shoulder, but smiled the half-smile John had come to know rather well ever since he'd introduced himself to Sherlock. "She isn't refused easily."

"You don't say". They had both chuckled a bit, John wincing – somehow, Sherlock's presence made him forget that he'd been shot most of the time and the consulting detective had helped him up the stairs and on the couch. Mrs. Hudson had come up two minutes later, apparently convinced that this was more than enough time to "settle".

"Sherlock, dear, where will John sleep? He shouldn't have to go up the stairs – and I'm not sure he should be sleeping up there anyway, with the chemicals and all. Or will you – ".

She looked from Sherlock to John, and the doctor resigned himself to the fact that their landlady obviously thought that they were together.

Sherlock, who emerged at this moment with a few pillows from his bedroom, determined to make John comfortable, even though John had assured him he already was, simply answered, "John will sleep in my room, for the time being, Mrs. Hudson. I'll take the sofa. And don't worry – I made sure that no chemical residue was left behind in the upstairs bedroom."

A certain tone in his voice convinced John that Mycroft had had the room checked, too, so he accepted a cup from Mrs. Hudson and drank the hot tea to hide his smile.

She'd sat down on Sherlock's chair, no doubt thinking this was a very subtle way of ensuring that Sherlock sat next to John, and asked, "How did you two meet?"

So Sherlock had thought about everything except the fact that his landlady might be curious how he found his flatmate. John wasn't surprised. He looked at Sherlock, and realized that the consulting detective thought, just as John did, that it was better to give his landlady their old cover story.

"An old friend introduced us – Mike Stamford. He and I studied together, and Sherlock met him at St. Bart's."

Mrs. Hudson beamed again, and John realized that she was happy that Sherlock had found another friend. He swallowed so he wouldn't tell her that he'd almost ended up Sherlock's worst enemy. She left them alone half an hour later, although John was sure that she'd try to keep their flat clean and make them tea on a regular basis, all while insisting she was "not their housekeeper".

As it turned out, he'd been right.

He'd lived with Sherlock for almost a month now, the consulting detective trying to be considerate of his "delicate" state by not playing his violin in the middle of the night (he had played it at eight am in the morning, though).

Mycroft had shown up about two weeks after he'd been released, and he had still been suspicious of his brother's friend (not that John could blame him).

He'd looked at John, and the doctor had felt that Mycroft was once again scrutinizing him, trying to decide whether he could trust him or not, and at the same time feeling grateful to him for saving his brother's life. And considering Mycroft Holmes could hide what he was thinking even better than Sherlock, John was convinced letting him see was the older Holmes' way of ensuring John that he wouldn't kidnap or kill him. Which would have been a relief, if John hadn't been equally sure that this could change very quickly if he ever (almost) betrayed Sherlock again. At least there would always be enough adrenaline in his system to ensure his limp wouldn't come back.

Mycroft didn't stay long (and until he left Sherlock made awful screeching noises with his violin John feared he would always hear when his brother came around). John supposed he had done what he came for: he had warned the doctor. But since he wasn't going to work for another consulting criminal in the foreseeable future, he wasn't very concerned.

Around the time Mycroft showed up, John had insisted that Sherlock should go to crime scenes again – he appreciated the consulting detective's efforts to make him comfortable, but it was clear that Sherlock hadn't any experience with dealing with injured people and Mrs. Hudson did more than enough fussing (not that John was annoyed; he already liked her a great deal). Plus, he definitely preferred the rude, strange Sherlock that had somehow become his best friend despite everything. The consulting detective seemed to have got the message, since the night after he'd come back from his first crime scene since the pool, he had woken John up with an explosion that had all but pulverized the kitchen table – at least it had given them a reason to finally replace the old one.

A few days after that, DI Lestrade, the policeman who called Sherlock in most of the time, came over, as he put it, "for a visit". It was clear that he was curious who had decided to live with Sherlock, and would have been angry – Sherlock wasn't an animal in a cage you watched for your amusement – if he hadn't realized, from the way DI Lestrade talked to and about him, that he actually cared for the consulting detective.

After about half an hour of drinking tea with the detective – while Sherlock did some experiments on the new kitchen table – the consulting detective was called to St Bart's; apparently there was a body part waiting for him. DI Lestrade stayed and, after the door had closed, looked at John, the question he had obviously withheld for some time finally spilling out. "Don't take me wrong, but Sherlock isn't an easy man to get along with, and you seem like a straight-forward bloke, so – "

"Why did I move in with him?" John asked, thankful that, by now, he could move around with relative ease and Sherlock had explained to the detective that he'd had "an accident" some weeks before. He shrugged his shoulders, not knowing how to explain his connection with Sherlock.

But he didn't have to, because Lestrade grinned. "I know the feeling – half of Scotland Yard thinks I'm mad for putting up with him."

"And the other half?"

"Already thought I was because I put up with Anderson – Sherlock doesn't see it that way, and I don't like him much, but he's good at what he does."

They chuckled, and John asked, "More tea, DI –"

"Greg, please. And yes, why not. There isn't much to do anyway until Sherlock finishes his tests."

When he left two hours later, they had decided to go out for a pint as soon as John would be allowed to, and the doctor reflected that, somehow, ever since he became friends with the most unsociable man he'd ever met, he constantly met new people who could easily become his friends too.

So, all in all, his life had turned out far better than he deserved. Harry was even talking (granted, it wasn't much, but it was a beginning) of quitting the booze. And, after a month of mostly sitting or lying in Baker Street and being pampered by Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft's doctors finally allowed him to go out again, as long as he didn't "strain himself".

Nevertheless, there was a problem.

They hadn't heard anything about the whereabouts of Sebastian Moran. Moriarty's web was still active, despite Sherlock's best efforts, and Moran had apparently overtaken the business. But no one knew where he was.

Sherlock invited John to come to a crime scene with him the day after he'd been allowed to leave Baker Street, and he gladly accepted. Despite his best efforts not to, he enjoyed working with Sherlock; he enjoyed telling Sherlock that the man must have been poisoned, and he enjoyed the chase after the killer, although he was probably straining himself.

Life stayed good for the next few months. They solved cases, they fought, they laughed, and while still worried about Moran, John had to admit that the memories of working for Moriarty were slowly fading.

And then Ronald Adair was shot.

Author's note: So mainly exposition and Sherlock and John living with one another. Oh, the bromance. They are so – I'll stop gushing now before it gets out of hand.

I hope you liked it, please review.