Notes: Do you ever write something and think, this is going to be a formatting nightmare?
Something provoked me to write something in first person.
Never let me do that again, please.
All the section titles are named after pieces of armor.
This is like with AMYoS, where I wrote and rewrote it so many times that I never want to see it again.
I don't know, take it as you will.

VISOR

I suppose it comes as no surprise that I always rather detested grand romantic gestures. They struck me as unnecessary and contrived, feeble attempts at desperately holding together relationships, most of which should have been allowed to fall apart.

I saw so much of their fundamental wrongness as a child. I watched my parents argue with each other, watched my father try to compensate for his indiscretions with flashy gifts. Mycroft tried to hide me from the fighting. He failed miserably.

Then there were the children at primary school with me. Children are all about grand gestures. Every day there was a new declaration of love, and every day a new heartbreak. Every Valentine's Day, I would watch children feel miserable at having been denied another child's affections. I myself had been one of those children before. I refused to participate in what I believed to be a holiday that said the only expressions of love were glaring and obvious and trite.

I got in trouble for refusing every year.

People like to think that they will grow out of these childish practices, that one day they will find a gesture that represents genuine love.

They would be wrong.

... ... ...

John Watson is a man who does not merely wear his heart on his sleeve, but wears it across his entire body. It emanates from him like an aura. He has never been able to hide anything from me or surprise me since the second he walked into the lab that day.

He is bisexual. He constantly denies it, both to the public and to himself.

Although I suppose not gay isn't technically a lie.

He is an incredibly sentimental man.

This means that every few weeks, he hopes to be romantically entangled with some new female, so that he can take her out, flirt and chatter, and pretend to be normal. But none of these relationships last. John has never been known for his interpersonal consistency anymore than I have been.

I suppose this all feels like a Shakespearean chorus introducing the characters in a play. But if there is one thing I have learned, it is that we spend the bulk of our stupid little lives playing parts for other people.

Outside of that, it is only a matter of discovering if we have found ourselves in comedies or tragedies.

GAUNTLET

I met Molly Hooper three years before I met John. Even then, she was well-meaning, if not slightly romantically deluded. I had already been working with Lestrade for some time at that point, and one morning I went with him to the lab at Bart's to look over one of his more recent and interesting murder victims. She had just started working in the morgue and wore on her face the usual new-job trepidation.

I was standing over the body, closely inspecting a series of suspicious gashes along its torso when I saw her out of the corner of my eye, watching me from across the room. Lestrade was trying to talk to her, to explain who I was, but she was mostly ignoring him.

I have always maintained that each person wears their own form of armour. As Molly shoved her hands deep into the pockets of her lab coat, it was easy to see what she had chosen as hers.

Lestrade left to get coffee.

"So, you're the genius he's been going on about?" She smiled awkwardly.

"Yes."

"You've solved lots of crimes like this, then?"

"I have solved any type of crime you can possibly fathom."

"How long have you worked with Greg?"

"Who?"

She hesitated. "Inspector Lestrade?"

"Many years." I finished my examination and strode away. Most of my encounters with Molly were similar. Some were more forward than others.

"Are you seeing anyone?" She asked one day as I sat at what I had claimed as my microscope.

"Seeing?"

"I mean, what I mean is, do you have a..." I looked up at her expectantly, waiting for her to spit out what I already knew she was going say. "Girlfriend?"

I paused for a beat before turning back to my slides and saying, "I don't see anyone." She dropped the matter.

Molly would continue her mooning over the years. I didn't know how to respond to it. So I left her to fight with her emotions on her own.

... ... ...

Sherlock, would you care to explain the doctor you seem to be living with? MH

I tried to talk to him. It didn't go well. MH

He's amazingly loyal, rather like a dog. MH

Don't make this difficult, dear brother. If you don't answer me, I'll come see you in person. MH

What do you want, Mycroft? SH

His therapist's notes says he has trust issues. Why then, does he trust you? MH

Grave mistake on his part, isn't it? MH

Wherever did you find him? MH

I didn't. He found me. SH

How touching. Try not to alienate this one, will you? MH

I have a serial killer to catch. SH

VAMBRACE

I acquired my first piece of armour when I was at university. I was studying chemistry, for lack of a better option. Mycroft had insisted I go, though I saw no point in it. No degree would affect my intelligence.

In the dormitories I was paired with a young man studying business named Sebastian Wilkes. He was very dedicated to keeping up appearances. I made little effort to get to know him or any of his friends. But there were nights I would be working – or trying to – and he would watch me from his bed or desk, scrutinising, attempting to fill in the blanks about me. By spring of our first year, I had talked with him enough to consider him something like a friend, or at least a pleasant acquaintance, despite our differences. I certainly bore him no ill will. And I naively believed that he thought similarly.

"Sherlock, mate, what are you doing?" He dropped all his things on the floor by his bed and collapsed onto it.

"Working." I was deeply engrossed in some monstrous text from the library.

"Do you ever have any fun?"

"Relative term."

"You should come out with all of us one night instead of locking yourself up with those books."

"Not really my area, Sebastian." I never once looked up from the pages as he talked to me.

"Oh come on," he pulled his desk chair over near me, straddling it and giving me a conspiratorial grin. "Why waste your life?"

"I assure you I am not wasting it. Socialising does not serve a purpose. Acquiring information does."

"You know, I can't recall you ever going out with anyone for fun."

"Astute observation."

"Why not?"

"Why?"

"Don't play games with me, Sherlock. I'm trying to figure you out. I mean, what do you want out of life?"

"Peace and quiet."

"What, not friends?"

"Not particularly."

"Not a girlfriend?"

"Girlfriend?" I scoffed. "Definitely not my area."

Sebastian paused then, sitting back in his chair some, eyeing me. "What is that supposed to mean?"

"You know my opinions on relationships."

"Yeah, but you didn't react to the relationship part. You reacted to the girlfriend part."

I finally looked up from my book. "I'm afraid I don't quite know where you're going with this, Sebastian."

His face began to twist. "You know, that would certainly explain a lot about you. If you were one of those." He looked disgusted.

"One of what?"

"Don't play dumb! Are you one of those cocksuckers, Holmes?"

"Would that matter?" A heavy silence settled over the room.

"Of course it would matter!"

"I assure you that you have nothing to worry about."

"That why you stick to your books? To reign in your perversions?"

"I stick to my books because they are more intelligent company than you," I said through clenched teeth. There was a wild, unstable look in his eyes. "And I refuse to be in your company till you regain your senses."

I stood to leave, and he grabbed a hold of my bare forearm, nails digging into my skin. "You still haven't given me an answer." I could feel the bruises forming under his grip.

"Because you don't deserve one."

"You wouldn't be so quick to bolt unless you had something to hide!"

"You wouldn't be so quick to sling accusations unless you did as well!" He sat back, his face shifting to shock, his hand falling away from my arm. I gave him a harsh laugh. "What? You think you're so good at keeping secrets? I regret to inform you that you are not." I loomed over him. "I've always believed that the more one denies something, the more likely it is to be truth. You defend your sexuality excessively, and while your friends may not notice, I certainly do, just as I notice the way you stare at that big one, Richard. But just because you hate yourself, just because you're trying to compensate, don't think for one second that you can project your problems on to me."

He looked up at me in horror, and suddenly he crumpled into nothing. "Don't say anything to them."

"Give me one good reason why I shouldn't."

His eyes showed one desperate flash. "I'll tell them about you if you do!"

"Tell them whatever you want. I don't care what they think." I had no intention of calling him out to his friends. I had already grown well-practiced at staying silent about all the things I knew about people that were supposedly secret.

He looked downright pathetic then, so insecure, yet so hateful. I threw him a disdainful scowl and left the room.

I stayed outside smoking for quite some time. I stared down at the little cuts his nails had made on my arm, the dark splotchy bruises.

When I went back to the room, Sebastian was gone.

The next morning, the cuts and bruises seemed even more obvious. I traded my casual clothes for a long-sleeved dress shirt to cover them.

I saw little of Sebastian the next few days.

... ... ...

Three days later, I came back to our room to find his things gone and mine in a state of disarray. Most of my belongings had been destroyed. The books had been shredded, the pillows and mattress cut open, even the desk chair broken. And spray painted on any surface available, every possible slur and curse that he and his friends could come up with.

I sat down on my bed, carefully avoiding the exposed springs, and looked at the devastation. I should have gone after him. I could have destroyed him, ruined his life. But I would be lying if I said I hadn't been shaken, that I wasn't bothered by the words spray painted across my room. I was still young, and while I was not the most sensitive of people, it still put a dampener on my day.

I had to get Mycroft to clear things up with the university, deal with the damages.

I had the unfortunate realisation that not everyone in this world was as indifferent as I.

The next morning, I reached for long sleeves again.

... ... ...

"People don't have archenemies."

John looked up at me from his food, a sort of mixed curiosity on his face.

"I'm sorry?"

"In real life. There are no archenemies in real life. Doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull."

"So who did I meet?" I wanted to pull my phone out and to tell Mycroft he had made quite the impression and would he kindly mind his own business in the future?

"What do real people have, then, in their...real lives?"

I zoned out and only caught the last few words of his answer. "Girlfriends, boyfriends."

"Yes, well, as I was saying, dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend then?" There was an edge to his voice I could not quite place.

After a moment's hesitation, thinking back to Sebastian, I answered, "Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

He paused, something like understanding crossing his face. Of course as a bisexual he would not have been fazed. But as a closeted one, he seemed to remember that my response should have raised red flags in his brain, and he covered up his seeming indifference with, "Oh. Right. Do you have a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine," I said, perhaps too abruptly. He gave me a strained smile.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No."

"Right. Okay. You're unattached, like me. Fine. Good." He looked back to his food, and I stared out the window for a moment, trying to read the subtleties of this interaction and feeling a nervous tension crawl through my shoulders.

"John, I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any –"

"No," he said, stopping me, "No, I'm not asking – no." He shook his head slightly and looked straight at me. "I'm just saying, it's all fine."

So he would not be another Sebastian. At least I could take comfort in that, even if I had not explicitly committed myself one way or the other.

"Good. Thank you."

I was unsure how I was supposed to feel about this. John, like Sebastian, was defending his heterosexuality with vigour, and as ever, I could see through him. But unlike Sebastian, I truly enjoyed the doctor's company. I did not want him to turn on me as others had. So I let him maintain his fiction. Just as I maintained mine.

BREASTPLATE

I was twenty-seven and had since left university, finding it to be much more trouble than it was worth, much to Mycroft's chagrin. My brother set me up in a small flat in London in hopes of keeping me out of trouble. He did not succeed, of course, and so by twenty-seven I was spending most of my days in a drugged haze.

I wish I could tell you that there was some dark, horrible crisis that first led me to drugs. But in the end, it was only boredom. I had nothing in my life, no one. There was no entertainment or distraction. So I created my own. I won't try to justify it either. It was idiotic. But you never quite realise it at the time.

One winter, I decided, on impulse, to accept an invitation from the only friend I had made during my remaining time at university. I had not seen Victor Trevor in what felt like decades, even if it had only been a couple of years.

We were sitting in a dark and crowded pub, and I felt jittery. I had spent most of the day strung out, and was beginning to crave my next fix. Victor, bless him, had been mostly oblivious. He was never the most perceptive man. He continued telling his stories, bright-eyed and grinning like a fool.

I began to regret coming. I could feel myself spinning.

"Sherlock? You all right?"

His face was blurry when I looked up at it. "Yes. Fine. All right."

"You don't look it, buddy. What's wrong?"

"Nothing! Nothing is wrong!" Suddenly my vision cleared, and I saw a very shocked and terrified Victor across from me. I had slammed my hands down on the table and could feel a cold sweat breaking out across my forehead. The few surrounding tables of people had stopped eating and drinking and were staring at me.

I stood there, breathing heavily with my heart pounding in my ears, for quite a while before I wrenched myself away from the table and practically ran out of the pub. Once outside, I leaned against the bricks of the building, trying in vain to steady myself.

A few minutes later, I felt a hand on my arm. "Sherlock?" Victor had a look on his face that mice usually reserve for cats.

I ignored him and pulled out a cigarette, hoping the nicotine would calm me down enough to get me through the rest of the evening.

"Sherlock, what happened back there? Are you sick?"

"I'm fine." But my hands were shaking trying to light the cigarette. Victor had pity on his face as he took the lighter out of my hands and lit it for me. I took a few deep inhalations and then glared at the glowing tip, muttering, "Not strong enough."

"What?"

"Nicotine, not strong enough." Understanding crossed his face, as did discomfort. Looking back on it now, I believe he had genuine concern for me, and I was just too addicted and consumed to notice.

Because if I had noticed, I would not have turned and walked away.

I found what I needed in a seedy part of London. I sat in an alley nearby, feeding my monsters. My mobile had rung multiple times. Victor left a voicemail, worried about me. Mycroft had called as well. I did not answer either of them.

I was not lucky that night. The drugs were tainted. I passed out, in the middle of December, in a dark back alley. As I went unconscious, I thought to myself, this must be what dying feels like.

... ... ...

When I woke up the first time, I did so in the snow, wearing clothes not meant for freezing weather, and Mycroft was standing over me, showing more emotion than I had ever seen on his face before. He was with paramedics.

When I woke the second time, I was in a hospital. They said I had pneumonia from being outside in the cold for so long in one position. They said the drug use had not done any good for my immune system. It had apparently been nearly forty-eight hours before they found me. Victor had called Mycroft to tell him what had happened. And then Mycroft sent out his armies searching for me. Initially they had believed I had overdosed. They were not far wrong.

Mycroft came to my room one day. "Victor came to see you, although I don't suppose you remember it."

"When?"

"Soon after you were admitted. He's gone now. He says to feel better." I doubted that I could have looked Victor in the eye had he been there. "Sherlock, what were you thinking? You nearly got yourself killed."

"None of your concern, Mycroft."

"It is!" I now heard the anger in his voice as I watched his face contort. "What would Mother say?"

"Do not go dragging her into this."

"Don't make me do so." There was a cold threat in his voice. "You will fix this, Sherlock. You will not become some vagrant on the street, looking for a fix. Not again." He walked up to me with a stack of papers and a pen. They were for an outpatient rehabilitation program. "You will quit acting like a petulant child. You will do this."

I stared at the dotted line for a long time before signing it. Mycroft pretended to remain unaffected, but I could see him breathe a sigh of relief, could see some of the tension drain from his shoulders. But his expression was still unforgiving.

"You know, Sherlock, Victor was your friend. You continue this way, you won't have any friends left."

He turned on his heel and left the room.

About a month later, I received a package from Mycroft in the mail. It was a large box from a department store, and inside it was a charcoal coloured coat and a piece of paper with my brother's handwriting scrawled across it.

"In case you find yourself stranded in an alleyway again."

... ... ...

I grew used to John much too quickly. How could I not?

I have no doubts that people do not see me as a romantic person. Many have believed over the years that I am incapable of love. I wish that were true.

When we were called in by Sebastian, I felt a smug sense of satisfaction. He needed my help after all these years. And it took me all of fifteen seconds to see that he was still living alone, still hating himself. He tried to bring up our days at university multiple times. Every time, it took him nowhere. Sebastian, who had called me horrible things, was easily replaced by John, who called me amazing and remarkable. I could see the unhappiness in his eyes. Part of him had hoped that I would show up and still be the awkward and lonely boy I had been when he knew me.

If only John had known about the drama that played out in Sebastian's office that day.

One can become quite fond of praise and concern. As much as I acted indifferent, it was rather endearing to see someone worry about me the way John did.

I think I lied to myself for quite some time, though. As a result of that lying, I can tell you the second I knew, or rather, admitted to myself, that I loved him.

It was no tender moment, I assure you. Do not banish me to the world of romanticism just yet.

No, it took the entrance of a psychopath to make me realise it.

Head should always rule the heart, but that is easier said than done when your heart is strapped to a bomb with the taunting sights of sniper rifles dancing across his chest.

Never in my life have I felt that kind of terror. It hit me then that there had been a shift in my life that had let in another person, and I was not inclined to return to my previous state.

After the confrontation at the pool, we sat in Baker Street, John making tea, as always, no doubt in an effort to calm us both down.

I was pacing through the living room, a nervous wreck. John watched me warily from the kitchen door way.

"Sherlock?" I did not respond. "Are you all right?"

I heard the genuine concern, and had I not been so wound up, would have been touched.

"Yes, fine, fine." I continued my laps around the room.

"Sherlock, listen to me." He had that serious tone in his voice, almost like a parent, that he got whenever I was being difficult. "Sherlock, would you be still for five seconds?!" I stopped mid-step and looked at him. He was staring at the floor, exasperated, yes, but uncomfortable as well.

"John?"

"This is bad, Sherlock, really bad. This maniac is not going to just let us go. He didn't even want us to get out of that pool alive."

"There is nothing we can do about it now, John."

He stared hard at me, his jaw set. "Do you understand how serious this is? Please, give me some hint that you do." Screaming would have been less chilling than the emptiness in his voice.

"Of course I understand! Moriarty is playing a game, and it is one thing for him to have me as his main piece, but now he has involved you, and that is the problem. You are all I have! I don't care what he may do to me, but I will not walk through a door to find you strapped to a bomb again! So yes, John, I know exactly how serious this is."

Needless to say, it was not the response either of us had been expecting.

The ensuing silence was glass that might shatter if we dared to speak.

All the irritation drained from his face, and his expression softened considerably. I took one deliberate deep breath and went to curl up on the sofa so I would not have to look him in the eye.

"Sherlock..."

I stared at the back of the sofa, mentally willing him to stop. I could hear in his breathing that he was so close to speaking again, but finally, he only sighed, and I heard him sit down in his usual chair, picking up the day's paper.

I thought I had gotten away with it, that he would let it slide, until, nearly an hour later, he spoke again.

"Thank you."

... ... ...

The cliché about aching hearts is, of course, medically inaccurate. But there is some truth in the spirit of the phrase. There is no scientific way to quantify the kind of pain that comes from loving someone you are convinced will never love you in return. It cannot be treated with medication. It is a symptom of a greater disease, one that has proven time and again to be chronic and incurable.

I wondered what John would have had to say about such philosophy, as a doctor.

But I would never ask him.

Sometimes it is better to let a disease eat away at you inside than to chance killing another person with it.

GORGET

I felt my back slammed against the bricks of the alley wall, hands running over me, grabbing my wrists. There were lips tracing my jaw, feverish kisses planted all over my neck and face.

He had been staring at me across the pub all evening. It was a few years after the debacle with Victor. I was having a weak night and had gone to the pub knowing there was someone there who could give me my fix. But I had pulled myself together mostly, settling for the only socially acceptable drug available: alcohol.

I did not know who the man was. I knew only that the longer I let the alcohol go to my head, the more I saw him watching me, occasionally throwing me a sly and lascivious smile.

I should have never gone out to begin with. But I was looking for a distraction.

The next morning, I woke up, blessedly alone, in my own bed, wondering foggily how much of my sense of propriety I had lost the night before. I felt relief wash over me when I saw I had passed out fully clothed.

My phone chimed from my bedside table. A request for help from Lestrade, as was always the case nowadays.

As I dressed in a new set of clothes, I saw red marks on my skin in the mirror. My neck was mottled with them. I cursed to myself. I was in no mood to explain it to Lestrade, who could never resist inquiring about every tiny aspect of my personal life.

I glanced at the blue scarf on top of the dresser. It really was not cold enough outside to justify it. But it seemed the best option.

Without another thought, I wrapped it around my neck, grabbing my coat from the hook on my door as I left.

... ... ...

The atmosphere in Karachi was decidedly unpleasant. Hot and dry, and punctuated occasionally by distant shouting or gunfire. I focused instead on the crackle of the fire in front of me. I was intensely grateful for my plethora of mental files. Otherwise there would have been nothing to occupy my time.

"You know, I don't think I've ever seen you so naked, and I've seen you wrapped in a bed sheet."

Across the fire in the military camp, Irene Adler looked me over. We had both abandoned the thick black robes in favour of fatigues. She, of course, was wearing the most minimal, the uniform pants and a T-shirt. I was just happy that the fatigues I wore still had long sleeves.

I shot her a withering glare. She arched an eyebrow at me. "What's the matter, Mr. Holmes? Feel exposed?"

"Do not make me regret my actions, Miss Adler." She gave me her usual pursed-lip smile.

"Oh, don't be so sulky. You wouldn't have come to get me if you didn't want to. Sentiment."

"There are few intelligent people in the world. It would be a disservice to let one of them get killed."

"Is that a compliment?"

"That is a fact. I do not compliment."

"You compliment that doctor of yours."

"What?"

"Just earlier, in fact. You said to me, or to yourself while I happened to be in the room, that John must have been a very strong man to have been a soldier, that you understood his bravery now."

"Still a statement of fact."

"Let's not play games, Mr. Holmes. Quit pretending I don't know. After all, I am intelligent. It's a fact."

I scowled at her. "I have nothing to discuss with you."

"Why do you find it so hard, I wonder? To say what you're thinking. You like to dance around things." She crossed her legs and her eyes bore into me. "What did you tell your doctor, when you left? I doubt you casually said you were going to Karachi."

"I said I had to work a very secure case for Mycroft."

"What did you tell the Iceman, then?"

"I didn't. He is in America at the moment. Public relations, you know."

"Oh, how I know." An amused grin played on her lips. "You know, that nice doctor thinks you were in love with me."

"Preposterous."

"I know. You should clear that up for him."

"I told him I was not in love with you."

"If you tell him why, he might believe you."

My scowl intensified considerably. Irene only smirked. She stood to leave, and as she walked past me, she trailed a finger across my face. "You'll never love me, Mr. Holmes. But you will always love your doctor."

SHIELD

Shortly after returning from Karachi, John and I were on a new case involving a serial killer. I had had more difficulty than I had imagined trying to keep my sentiment in check. He would shoot me one of those warm and open smiles of his, and I had to force myself to only return it with my usual brand of appreciative arrogance. It was getting steadily harder.

My desire to not reveal myself is what eventually caused me to make an idiotic decision of epic proportions.

John was visiting with his sister when I decided to go after the culprit myself. I left him a note saying I would be back later, but did not tell him where I was going, or what I planned to do.

He texted me once or twice during the evening. He was not alarmed yet, merely annoyed. I did not reply.

... ... ...

I came back to the flat late in the night. I had been savagely beaten. My shirt was torn and bloody. I thought briefly that if the killer had ruined my coat like he ruined the rest of me that he would not have been alive for Lestrade to take in to custody.

John was sitting reading the paper when I stumbled in, and upon seeing me, his eyes widened in that sudden protective instinct he always assumed when I was injured. He crossed the room in a flash, arm instantly around me, supporting me and guiding me to the sofa.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" The tone was both concerned and admonishing. "Where have you been? What the hell happened?"

"Ask Lestrade. Long story."

"You had me bloody worried, you know that! You weren't answering your damn phone! Did you not go to the hospital? We're going."

"No, John. No serious injuries, I assure you."

He sat next to me, a hand on my shoulder. "What the hell were you thinking? You can't just run off like that, Sherlock. You could have gotten yourself killed."

"I've spent years running after criminals, John. That's what I do."

"Yes, but that was before –" He seemed to stop breathing for a moment.

"Before what?"

He shook his head. "Nothing. Come on. You look like a mess." He gently took me by the arm and walked me to the toilet, sitting me down on the edge of the tub and rummaging around for the first aid kit. Holding it out like a display, he said, "You know, I never had cause to keep one of these around till you came along." He set it to the side and looked down at me. "Coat off. I can't work around it."

I froze for a second, but relinquished.

He let out a short laugh and bent down in front me, looking me straight in the eye. "I thought the scarf was implied, you idiot." Before I could even process what he said, he reached out and slipped the blue scarf off from around my neck, fingers briefly brushing my skin. His smile faded some. "Why do you do this to yourself, Sherlock?" I almost opened my mouth to speak, to tell him that lately everything I did served to distract myself and protect myself from getting hurt emotionally. If that meant getting hurt physically, then so be it. But I said nothing. He set about examining my various wounds, making a little tutting sound at the cut near my temple. Every finger seemed to leave an electric intensity in its wake.

He began cleaning off some of the blood, working his way down my face and neck. He stopped, looking through the tear in my shirt, and saw the gash across the right side of my chest.

"You really should go to the hospital, Sherlock."

"You know that will not happen."

"Then you have to let me do your stitches, because that laceration is a nasty one. I won't have you getting an infection on my watch."

"Fine."

He reached for the top button of my shirt, and I automatically flinched. He shot me a look. "Do you honestly think I can give you stitches through this?" I felt my face instinctively settle into a weak glare as his hands deftly undid the rest of the buttons. He slid the shirt back over my shoulders and down my arms. I did not move to aid him. His hands lingered on my wrists before slipping the cuffs over my hands.

He was so well-practiced that I hardly felt the twinge of the needle through my skin. His eyes took on a languid quality of concentration.

"Before what?"

"Hmm?"

"Earlier, you did not finish your thought. Before what?"

He looked up at me, holding eye contact for a harrowing few seconds before turning his gaze back to the sutures. He shrugged. "It's not important. It's just –" He tied off the last stitch and ran a finger over the repaired wound. "It's not easy, you know. Wondering if you'll come back. Or if you'll come back like this, beaten and bloody."

"Part of the work, John."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not." He gave me a crooked smile.

"Yes, I am." I huffed out a sigh of frustration. "Many times, I have ignored other people's concern for me. Perhaps I shouldn't. Albeit, it is more difficult to ignore your concern."

"Because I never let you hear the end of it," he said with a chuckle.

"No, because I care about what you have to say." He looked somewhat taken aback by that remark, and that was when we both noticed his hand still resting on my chest. He pulled it away and stood, turning his attention to the cut by my temple.

"Well, now I know you're being sarcastic." He quickly and easily bandaged the cut and knelt back down on one knee in front of me, scrutinising his own work. He gave a slow shake of his head. "You are going to hurt like hell tomorrow."

"I'll manage."

He locked eyes with me again, a slight furrow across his brow, as if he were deliberating something with himself. No doubt it had something to do with one of my injuries. He reached a hand up toward my face. I expected it to land across the bandaged cut, but instead it snaked its way around and cupped the back of my neck, gently pulling me closer to him.

And he kissed me.

For one split second, I was too shocked to react, but that second passed so quickly it might as well have not existed at all. I shut my eyes, taking in this shared breath, and for once in my life, I lost myself in the realisation that finally, someone had managed to surprise me.

He pulled away, and I saw the look of terror in his eyes, like someone emerging from a fugue state to find a body at their feet and a knife in their hand. His hand remained on the back of my neck, but his eyes flitted to the floor between us. Barely audible, I heard him mutter, "Sorry, I'm –"

It turned out that there were expressions of love that were not glaring or obvious or trite. And I was struck suddenly by a wave of them. All the times he forced me to eat and sleep. All the times he tended to my wounds. All the times he reassured me, even when I swore I needed no reassurance. All the times he put me back together when I did not even know I was broken. And all the times, when, provided with a choice, he chose me.

Sometimes it takes a sword to pierce through the armour we create for ourselves, but the job is truly better done by gentle hands. Then once you've been stripped down to nothing, to the barest, most raw part of yourself, those hands can hold you together, and act as your shield, your new source of protection.

I understood that I was not the only one laid bare then. The person who had always been my shield was, in that moment, more unprotected than perhaps I had ever been. How many pieces of armour had he covered himself with over the years, when I was too hidden by my own to notice?

He had shielded me for so long. It was high time I returned the favour.

I mirrored him, my hand finding the base of his neck, and pulled him closer to me. His own hand dropped from its place, sliding to a halt on my arm. Again he said, "I'm sorry," and a few inches closer, he said only my name, but in such a way that his entire heart was in that one word. I responded in the only way I could.

"Stop."

I silenced his last halfhearted attempt at an apology for an imagined offence. This kiss was deeper, fuelled by all the things we had never said out loud, and even now were saying only with sharp intakes of breath and sighs.

He pulled back mere inches, just long enough to say in a hushed voice, "I thought this wasn't really your area?"

I mumbled back against him, "I may have miscalculated."

"A mistake from the world's only consulting detective? Hmm, I suppose I'll overlook it."

"Do not ever let me overlook something like this ever again."

"Only if you'll do the same for me."

"Deal."

Every piece of discarded armour presents a risk. I will not pretend it doesn't. But every risk presents a chance to find that protection elsewhere. And be made better as a result.

And maybe that's enough.