A/N: This is an Otherwise AU story. If you haven't read If It Were Otherwise, this will make very little sense. Otherwise is posted on ffn and can be found on my profile page (it's also 116 chapters long, so just be warned). Since this is an AU, things are slightly different, and there are also original characters incorporated into the story line. If you don't like either of those things, you might not enjoy this story. To those of you who do like those things, I hope this is a good read! (Also note: there will be more chapters, not just this one. But not 116 of them.)

The silence of his flat was like a balm after nearly a week in the hospital. St. Mary's had been worse, but even at Princess Grace, where Sherlock had insisted on being moved once he'd had the strength to argue, there had been no real respite from the incessant noise. The machinery tracking his vitals had kept him relentless company, and he'd rarely been without the squeak of rubber soles in the corridor outside his private room or the murmured sounds of voices passing by.

Even John bustling around, helping him out of his coat and shoes, giving inane instructions about rest and diet and hydration couldn't shatter the precious peace. John's voice was familiar and welcome. Part of Sherlock's life and home. A constant he'd grown used to and couldn't imagine doing without.

"That sounds fine," he replied to his partner's enquiry about whether he'd like to lie down on the sofa. It sounded more than fine, really – perfect would have been a good adjective. After six days of staring at bland walls and bland curtains, confined to a narrow and uncomfortable bed, it was a relief to settle onto the plush sofa cushions, to be surrounded by colour and life designed on his terms.

"I'll make some tea and some soup," John said, draping a blanket lightly over Sherlock's legs, tucking it carefully around hips that felt too bony and narrow even after such a short time. Sherlock was aware that his clothing was ill-fitting now, but John had said nothing, so presumably regaining the weight wouldn't be an issue. It surprised him vaguely that he cared, but he had no desire for John to lose interest in him physically.

"Anything else you want?" his partner asked.

"Whiskey. An entire bottle," Sherlock replied, slouching down slightly.

"Not until you're off the antibiotics."

"Alcohol isn't contraindicated with this type."

"Doesn't matter," John said firmly. "You're sick. No alcohol. Chocolate HobNobs instead. Sound all right?"

Sherlock found he could muster a genuine smile in response. Tea and biscuits did sound appealing, and he could tolerate soup enough to satisfy John's need to see him eat.

He shuffled further under the blanket, unhappy with the chill that was creeping under his skin. John returned a few minutes later, tea and HobNobs at the ready, the smell of soup wafting gently in from the kitchen. He picked up Sherlock's phone when it buzzed, ignoring the glare shot his way.

"Gabe says welcome home and wants to come up later to see you."

"That's fine," Sherlock said.

"We'll see how you're feeling," John replied, expression warning against arguing, but something about it sparked a rebellious petulance in Sherlock.

"I'm forty for god's sake, not four."

"Says the man who ignored the fact that he was sick for so long he collapsed from it. I don't care how old you are, Sherlock, you're sick. You need to rest, not to work. I know you well enough that you'll pester Gabe to get you caught up to speed."

"I won't," Sherlock sighed.

"I'll believe that when I see it," John said, pocketing Sherlock's phone and disappearing into the kitchen again. He returned with chicken soup that smelled suspiciously of coming from a tin. Sherlock took it grudgingly, stirring it once or twice before the motion threatened to become tiring.

"You're the doctor," he pointed out, disliking the irritable note the slipped into his voice. "If you hadn't gone away, you'd have noticed."

"You survived thirty-two years before having me here to diagnose any ailments," John replied, dropping a light kiss into Sherlock's curls. "Like you said, you're forty. You don't need me for common sense."

With a sigh, Sherlock set the soup aside. John picked it up immediately, nudging enough room on the sofa to sit on the edge.

"I'm not hungry."

"You need the calories. Here. At least half."

"I'm not a child, John."

"No, you're a man recovering from a serious illness, and I am a doctor. I know you trust me, Sherlock. Trust me in this."

With a sigh, Sherlock conceded and let himself be fed as if he had no control over his body. He would never have admitted to John that it was something of a relief – he felt heavy, his muscles weighted and sluggish. It was simpler to let someone else do it, and when most of the soup, the tea, and the biscuits were gone, John left him to drift to sleep in merciful silence for the first time in a week.

There was a disorienting sense of not knowing where or when he was. Sherlock lay still, letting information creep in and process itself rather than jumping to panicked conclusion. Smells, sensations, noises – all of them were familiar.

Home.

His flat, and John's.

He was in the living room, on the sofa, where John had left him to sleep. It was much later now, the light having shifted, nearly vanished into dusk. Gabriel wouldn't come today; John wouldn't allow it at this hour.

Sherlock found he didn't mind. There was an odd dual sensation of missing his friend's presence and not caring about the work. He'd see Gabriel tomorrow, maybe. The younger man had come to the hospital every day to visit, under strict instructions from John not to discuss business. Not that they would anyway – neither of them was so negligent.

If he tried, he could remember fingers on his face, Gabriel's insistent voice separated by some great distance. The smell and feel of his office, the blur of Tina's black heels as they passed him by. Such a strange vantage point, her shoes at eye level. Such a strange memory, so clear and undiluted amidst the mix of jumbled sounds and images that still made no sense.

It seemed like John had been there, too, but he'd been away with Tricia and Jamie, some blasted army reunion Sherlock hadn't had any desire to attend. He'd had a cough when John had left, thought nothing of it. A spring cold, nothing more than a mild and passing annoyance.

He remembered Gabriel's voice, words spoken to Tina: "He's burning up." He'd felt like he'd been on fire, Gabriel's fingers ice against his face, where they'd brushed his throat and chest to unbutton his shirt enough to let him breathe better. He remembered speaking, but Gabriel hadn't answered. It had probably emerged as nothing more than moans. He must have been barely conscious, but it hadn't felt that way, aware of light and sound but unable to make sense of them.

John had come later, his trip cut short. Sherlock had no memory of that, only of cold pressed against him – ice to help bring down the fever.

Pneumonia. Such a stupid thing. He'd never had it even as a child. It made him feel weak – it had made him weak. Helpless. Exhausted.

"Oh you're awake." John's voice was quiet in the near darkness, close and warm. He crouched down in front of the sofa, brushing a stray lock of hair from Sherlock's forehead – and feeling for any signs of returning fever, Sherlock was certain.

"Do you think I might have a bath?" Sherlock asked. John smiled, lips pressing against a temple briefly.

"That could be arranged," he agreed. "Let's get you into the bedroom and I'll run it."

Sherlock refused the offered assistance, pushing himself slowly to his feet. John kept pace with him but didn't offer any more help, for which Sherlock was grateful. A week of being pandered to by nurses and doctors had left him longing to do something – anything – on his own. He eased himself onto their bed as John disappeared into the bathroom, and dozed to the sounds of water spilling into the tub.

John was already stripped down to his jeans and bare feet. He helped Sherlock from his clothing, lending a supportive hand as the younger man climbed carefully into the large bathtub. A moment later, John's jeans and pants were puddled on the floor and he was slipping in gingerly, testing the water against his skin.

"Oh good," Sherlock said, tilting his head back against the edge, eyes closed, letting the warmth from the water permeate tired and aching joints. "I thought I'd be on my own."

A derisive snort from John made him smile as a hand tangled into his hair.

"Here, dunk under." Sherlock obeyed, the light and sounds distorting for a moment before he slid back up, dark curls matted to his skin. John washed his hair slowly, the pressure of fingertips and the faint scratch of fingernails against his skull making Sherlock hum appreciatively. Despite having just slept, he felt like he could again, but kept himself awake. Bathing with John had a relaxing quality he'd never found in anything else. He focussed on the slow, soothing strokes of the flannel against his skin, shifting when John required him to, settling back with a sigh, the clean feeling making his fingers and toes tingle. It had been days since he'd felt this much like himself.

"I'm going to cover your face," John warned before a flannel was draped over him, bringing a sudden darkness and heat. Sherlock kept his eyes closed, let John repeat the procedure twice more before it was contrasted by the cool touch of foam.

The smooth scrape of the razor over his cheek and jaw made him think of the now-empty cell in the basement of his office building, of the number of times he'd done exactly this same routine. Washing hair, washing skin, shaving. It had been over three years now, and nothing remained of it – neither the structure nor the man who had prowled its small confines.

John had unknowingly mimicked the sequence but the comparison was meaningless. Sherlock felt nothing but content, a lulling safety that he allowed himself to feel solely in John's presence, and only when they were at home alone. The worst of the threats against either of them had been eliminated, but it seemed now his own body could be counted as a potential enemy, turning against him, breaking down. He'd have to pay more attention.

"Done," John murmured, wiping away the last traces of foam with careful strokes.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sincerely, opening his eyes to see the smile crossing his partner's lips.

"Want to get out?" John asked.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed, closing his eyes again, shaking his head. Allowing himself to shift and relax against John's body when the doctor slipped between him and the edge of the tub. "Not just yet."

The sensation of waking up in his own bed was so welcome that Sherlock gave himself a few minutes just to appreciate it. The sound of John's slow, steady breathing. Clean sheets that didn't scratch or crinkle against his skin. Enough space to lie comfortably. The warmth of the duvet and his partner's body next to his.

He roused himself reluctantly, not wanting to disturb John by coughing, and headed to the kitchen to clear his lungs and make a much needed cup of coffee. The thought of wrapping himself in his dressing gown and sitting on the balcony with a cigarette was appealing, but smoking was strictly forbidden.

John had bought him nicotine patches, which were nowhere near as good, but had some sort of palliative effect. It was the idea of starting his day with coffee and a cigarette that he really craved; with a sigh, Sherlock conceded he probably shouldn't go outside in the early morning cold anyway.

Freshly ground and brewed coffee was a more than adequate substitute. Sherlock settled on the sofa again, sipping the steaming drink, and felt suddenly at a loss. In the early mornings with John still sleeping, he would normally catch up on work. His doctors – including John – had been very clear that he was on an imposed break. Rest and recovery. Contravening that would make John angry, and Sherlock had neither the desire nor the energy for a row.

Seven days away from his office had left him unaware of recent developments anyway. No matter where he started, he'd be behind until Gabriel caught him up – another thing that wasn't going to happen without John's permission.

He selected a book from one of the bookcases and sat down to read, but his attention waned after a handful of pages, leaving him rereading passages several times before realizing they hadn't sunk in. Sherlock closed the book with a resigned sigh when he heard the sounds of John getting up. His partner padded barefoot into the living room to perch on the arm of the sofa, tangling a hand in Sherlock's sleep-dishevelled hair.

"You're up early," John said, to which Sherlock hummed a non-committal reply. "Want some breakfast?"

Sherlock agreed – he was unlikely to have a choice in the matter, and anything John made was guaranteed to be better than the hospital food. He was happy that his partner kept it simple with some toast and fruit.

"What will you do today?" Sherlock asked as John settled next to him with a steaming bowl of oatmeal.

"I've got nothing in mind," John replied. "I'm sure there are things that need to be done around here. Laundry, for a start."

"Don't you have patients?" Sherlock asked, mildly surprised.

"No, you daft bugger," John said with a fond smile. "I've got a sick boyfriend to take care of."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, both at the term and at the assessment.

"Nothing's going to happen to me here, John," he sighed. "There must be people in need of your services."

"Yes," John replied. "You."

"I think I can manage sleeping without your supervision. Go into your office for a few hours if you'd like."

"After a week living in a hospital, I honestly don't mind," John said.

"You'll be bored."

"No, love, I'm not you. I can always find something to do. And you'll probably need someone here to keep you from climbing the walls."

Climbing the walls. It was an odd phrase, and Sherlock had found himself studying said walls, but with lethargy instead of impatience. He'd expected to become bored, as John had predicted. For impatience to creep back in as a dull itch beneath his skin, for his mind to turn in on itself seeking distraction until he had to do something to alleviate the inactivity.

Instead he'd slept, watched some telly, and slept again. Gabriel had come up before work to say hello – polished shoes, pressed suit, perfectly matched tie, all business and directed purpose. It had occurred to Sherlock to feel envious, but he hadn't been able to muster the response.

Cheryl had come later in the morning for a cup of tea. Sherlock had found himself not evaluating anything about her beyond her clothing, the same way he had with Gabriel. That was annoying; he should be seeing beyond the surface, registering and analyzing all the little hints she was giving away about herself without intending to.

I'm losing my mind, he thought when she'd gone, a flash of panic flaring beneath the fatigue. Not to insanity but atrophy. Surely a week couldn't do that much damage?

John would probably point out it was nothing but a symptom of the illness and that the foggy, detached feeling would fade as he recovered. That was rational and logical, so Sherlock chose to believe it, refusing to let the panic take root any deeper. This was not unusual or unexpected, and he was a genius.

Sleep seemed the ideal answer. Sherlock burrowed under the blanket and closed his eyes.

"How about some of the Doctor?" John asked, holding up a DVD case and flashing a smile across the room.

"I've had enough doctors," Sherlock replied, draping an arm over his eyes.

"Too bad," John said cheerily, accompanied by the faint hum of the television coming to life. "I'm in the mood for it, and I know you always are. Budge up – having pneumonia doesn't give you twenty-four-seven control of the sofa."

"It's my sofa," Sherlock murmured.

"And what's yours is mine," John replied, nudging in behind Sherlock and lying on his side. Sherlock shuffled down to let John rest his head on the arm of the couch; the angle of the television screen was odd this way, but he didn't mind. He'd seen each episode enough times – a new vantage point was bound to make him catch something he'd previously missed.

"None of your cheek," he said, pretending to ignore the faint chuckle and the kiss pressed against his neck.

"Now I know you're feeling better. Talking back."

"If I'm not mistaken, it was you talking back," Sherlock replied, twisting slightly in his partner's light embrace, catching John's grin and the glint in his eyes.

"Not possible. I'm a trained military officer. We don't ever talk back." Sherlock made a cynical sound; John tugged lightly on his curls. "Quiet, it's starting."

Sherlock shifted again, getting comfortable against his partner's familiar body, and let his mind switch off, following the familiar plot without much more effort than normal. John had chosen one of his favourites, but his attention span waned more quickly than he was expecting, the colours blurring faintly in front of him. He closed his eyes, ignoring the dialogue and focussing on John's presence, on the patches of warmth against his skin underneath the cotton pyjamas were John was touching him, the small cool places where some tiny space separated them.

It was much more pleasant than the show; Sherlock ignored the protest when he turned the television off, pushing a shoulder into John's chest so he could turn just enough to see his partner.

"I want to go home."

A puzzled look creased John's features, drawing twin lines up from his nose.

"Sherlock, we are home." Voice gentle, as if explaining something to a child, but edged with wariness, uncertain what the statement meant.

"I mean Buckinghamshire home," Sherlock replied.

A moment's hesitation then John nodded, smoothing a hand up and down Sherlock's upper arm.

"All right, but why?"

"I don't know," Sherlock replied, mildly surprised to find that he genuinely didn't know, that the desire had no rational basis he could determine.

"Okay, well let me call your mum, and I'm sure she'd be happy to have us come."

"Let's just go."

"Now? Sherlock, we can't show up unannounced–"

"It's my home," Sherlock said, an unwanted note of impatience dipping into his voice.

"Yes and we'll give your parents some warning. We'll go first thing in the morning. I'll drive. No sense dragging Gerald out of the city for an indefinite amount of time."

Sherlock scowled, keeping to himself the observation that it was Gerald's job to drive him wherever he willed.

"All right," John said with a sigh. "I'll make some arrangements with Gabe, too – he'll have to know you're away, and he is my boss after all."

"And I'm his. Tell me if he gives you any trouble."

"Yeah, he's sure to do that," John replied, rolling his eyes. "He's always such a thorn in your side, isn't he?"

"You mock," Sherlock said. "You've no idea."

"Well you're the one who found, hired, and trained him, so it's on you if he's a pain in the ass." John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's cheek, the motion not quite hiding the smile on his lips. "Now are you going to let me up to ring your mum, or not?"

Sherlock dozed as they left London and its suburbs, waking to the greens and golds of rolling hills and villages dotting the landscape. John had left the motorway, most likely as soon as they were clear of the city's fringes, opting for the smaller roads instead.

Sherlock didn't complain, but watched the scenery slide by through the windscreen and passenger window. It was always odd sitting in the front of the car. He was more likely to drive than John was, but still rarely resorted to it.

It had a certain freedom he wasn't expecting. Just the two of them, no need to relay the decisions to a third party, no need to be conscious of someone else's presence.

As if reading his mind, John rested a hand on Sherlock's knee, thumb turning small circles. There was nothing sexual about the gesture, only comforting and loving, a tiny, warm connection that he hadn't realized he'd been missing. John had touched him a lot in the hospital and in the two days they'd been at home, but most of that had been functional, necessary. Helping him with things he was too tired or stiff or sore to do for himself.

Despite the faint ache in his muscles, Sherlock extended an arm, cupping a hand on the back of John's neck, massaging lightly with his fingers. A flicker of a smile crossed John's lips, crinkling around his eyes.

"We should do this more often," John commented, casting a quick glance at Sherlock.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed non-committally, leaning his head against the headrest and closing his eyes again, focussing on the purr of the motor and the feel of John's skin against his own.

Sibyl and William were waiting for them when John pulled the car to a stop in front of the residential entrance. Sherlock felt a dull thrum of surprise upon seeing his father at home during the day. Age hadn't seemed to slow William's steady pace, and if he'd ever considered retirement, he'd opted against it. There were always board meetings, executive committees, days spent planning the fates of others.

Something Sherlock understood intimately.

"It's good to see you," his mother said, cupping his face before pressing a kiss against his forehead. "You look much better."

"I feel much better," Sherlock replied. Not one hundred percent – nowhere near – but it was a marked improvement from how he'd felt in the hospital when full awareness had first returned.

His father's sudden hug startled him – both the action and its ferocity. Sherlock managed to return it, shocked by the gesture and the fact that it was done in public. As public as their front drive was anyway; it didn't seem like a busy National Trust day for the house, and he hadn't noted an audience.

"You gave us quite the scare, my boy," William said, pulling away to grasp Sherlock lightly – but firmly – by the shoulders.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock replied automatically, feeling reduced to childhood yet oddly not chastised. The sudden emotion left him feeling bewildered; even in the hospital, William had been calm and certain, almost stoic. Practical to the core. Concerned, of course, but never panicked or afraid.

"Let's get you inside," Sibyl suggested. "No sense in you catching a chill."

Sherlock glanced at John, who smiled slightly, giving a brief nod.

"I've got the bags," his partner assured him, and was only a few steps behind them as they entered the house. There seemed to be no staff on duty – Sherlock knew that was unlikely, but they were left in peace to navigate their way to the small suite that they'd used since their first visit.

John vanished into the bedroom to drop the bags, reappearing a moment later.

"Would you like anything?" Sibyl asked.

"Tea," John replied gratefully. "And some biscuits, if you've got them."

"Of course we have," Sibyl replied with a smile. "Anything you'd like. You needn't worry about it; if we haven't got it, it can be obtained. You look like you need to rest." The last was to Sherlock, who nodded mechanically; the trip hadn't been eventful, but had left him feeling somewhat drained, a familiar ache settling into his muscles.

"Let us know when you're ready for company," his mother said, bending to kiss him again.

"We will," Sherlock promised. He and John were left in silence, the door to the suite clicking shut quietly behind his father. John tucked a blanket around him, and Sherlock was asleep before the promised tea had a chance to arrive.

"Would you like to go out?"

"Dinner and a show perhaps?" Sherlock asked, cracking one eye open to catch John's smile.

"I was thinking more along the lines of a short walk. The weather's nice and the fresh air would do you some good."

"How can I argue with my doctor?" Sherlock murmured.

"Ha," John muttered, not quite under his breath. "You'll need to change."

John had done the majority of the packing for him and it seemed the clothing Sherlock was used to wearing – suits, silk shirts – had been prohibited. Admittedly, Sherlock had purchased the more casual clothing for himself, but the jeans and the layers topped by a jumper left him feeling unlike himself. Not uncomfortable, but like he was playing the role of tourist in his own home.

Or the role of a sick man recovering from an illness.

John wrapped a scarf around Sherlock's neck, tugging it gently to tighten it, smoothing away some of the creases. Sherlock scowled, pretending to be annoyed, knowing full well John would see through it.

The sky was overcast, but the clouds were high and thin, the hidden sun nearly visible behind them. It hadn't rained in a few days and the grass was dry but green as they ambled across it, stepping over the short stone wall that separated the lawn from the private flower gardens. There was a higher barrier preventing the National Trust tourists from encroaching on their space, and Sherlock had never been more grateful for that than he was now.

They walked in silence until Sherlock began to feel tired. John sat beside him on the bench, their arms pressed lightly together, sharing warmth. Sherlock hated how easily he tired, how weak he was.

"All right?" John asked. Sherlock sighed and pursed his lips but nodded. John hooked an arm through his at the elbow, took his hand.

"How do you feel about retirement?" Sherlock asked, not looking down at his partner, gaze settling instead on brown and bare branches twined with green ivy vines.

"In general or for me specifically?"

"Perhaps I should," Sherlock mused.

"You're sick, not old," John replied.

"I feel old," Sherlock muttered.

"I know you do. You're recovering from a serious illness, Sherlock. It's not unexpected."

"A serious illness I've never had before. If I can catch something now, what does that mean from now on?"

"I think it means that you've got to pay better attention to your health," John said. "You eat well and exercise, but you ignore anything that feels like discomfort or fatigue. You push yourself hard, Sherlock."

"I've trained myself to go without much sleep," Sherlock corrected. "And haven't ever needed much anyway."

"I know," John said. "But right now you do. It's normal, and certainly doesn't make you weak or old. Learn to pay a bit more attention to yourself. You're fantastic at reading other people – maybe just not so good at doing it to you."

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle, shaking his head when John gave him a quizzical look.

"Gabriel said something similar regarding my ability to deceive myself about being interested in you."

"Well he was right," John said, raising his eyebrows.

"Will you make me give up smoking?" Sherlock murmured.

"I'm not making you do anything," John replied. "You should, because no amount of nicotine is good for you, but you don't smoke so much I think it will actually hurt you."

"I'm gasping for a cigarette."

"I know you are. And you would be gasping if you smoked right now."

"John, I can't do anything," Sherlock said, tipping his head back, closing his eyes. "No smoking, no sex, no work. Even if I were allowed to work, I can't bring myself to find it interesting. Perhaps retirement would be a good option. What use am I otherwise?"

John sighed quietly, squeezing Sherlock's hand, a small, momentary increase in warmth.

"Do you want my opinion?"

"As a doctor or as my partner?"

"Both."

"Yes."

"You were seriously ill and are still recovering. You still tire easily and your mind isn't working as quickly as you're used to, but because you're tired, you don't really care. You're mistaking a mild depression for actual loss of interest in what you love."

"Something else," Sherlock murmured, letting his eyes flutter open.

"No, it's situational and completely normal. I'm not worried about it."

"Your lack of concern does you credit," Sherlock muttered, scowling slightly.

"Even if it does make you grumpy and sulky," John replied.

"I don't sulk," Sherlock said, ignoring the smile that stretched over John's lips.

"Not ever," his partner agreed with what Sherlock privately considered far too much levity to be believed.

"If I can't think, then I can't do. The point of my work– of my life, John, is to stay several steps ahead of everyone. I can't do that, and risk jeopardizing my entire organization and those who work for me."

"You can't right now," John corrected. "That's why Gabe is in charge and you're here recovering. Sherlock, I know you. You think retirement is appealing now because you're tired. Give it a week and you'll be itching for a challenge, gasping to throw yourself back into it. Retirement, love? Not right now."

"I should stop," Sherlock murmured. "What I do is wrong." A faint tension in John's muscles, tightening the tendons on the back of his hand beneath Sherlock's thumb. "Why are you surprised? I've never held any illusions that isn't. I break the law, John. My work contravenes all societal norms. I take what isn't mine. And I enjoy it. Morally bankrupt." He closed his eyes, tipping his head back again.

"I'm not a good man."

A pause, a silence that stretched between them, and Sherlock was startled to find he wanted denial from John, some hollow reassurance that meant nothing – objectively it would be untrue. A statement of fact, and he had no guilt about the reality, no sudden desire to change his ways or repent.

And still he wanted John to contradict him.

"You've never been anything but good to me."

Sherlock opened his eyes, looking down. John's gaze was firm when it met his, straightforward, without deception or apology.

"You got me out of that bedsit, made me work again. Forced me back into doing something. Paid me enough – more than enough – to feel comfortable. Took care of my friends. Gave me someone to fall in love with. And have given me eight good years. You've never taken anything I wouldn't have given you."

"We've fought."

"We have. Sometimes that was your fault. Sometimes mine. Sometimes both, or neither. I don't care what you do for your work. I know you care about it – and that you enjoy it. I know if you stopped now, you'd go mad with inactivity."

"I'll have to retire sometime."

"Maybe," John agreed, fingers running through Sherlock's hair. "And when you do, Gabe'll take over, or whoever comes after him. But whenever that is, Sherlock, it's not going to be for a long time yet."