Disclaimers, same as first chapters. Nothing has changed, including my hero-worship of everyone who brought Sherlock to me. No money made, all credit to BBC, etc.

Also, major SPOILERS for Reichenbach. If you have not seen or are offended, DO NOT READ! There is dialogue and events that give, um things away. You have been warned.

Mine

The moment Moriarty said John's name Sherlock felt every muscle in his body tense. He didn't show it, no, he'd been anticipating this since James Moriarty had, or hadn't rather, started mounting his 'defense' at the so called trial of the century.

It was the unnatural, _familiar_ the way he said John's name, the way it just rolled off of his tongue, that made Sherlock's fury go from icy-hot to near volcanic.

*Don't show him, remember, remember….The Pool, remember. He Knows.*

I will burn the heart out of you.

Asking why Moriarty was doing this was futile. He was stalling for time. Keep John away, keep him away from all of this.

"I owe you a fall, Sherlock."

The apple, the inscription.

Eyes flitted from across the mirror at 221b. John, casually knotting his tie as Sherlock's gaze settled on him.

John was a grown man, a soldier for god's sake; Sherlock couldn't make him stay at 221b, away from Moriarty's poison.

In truth, he wanted John there, not to keep him himself in check (the doctor would fail anyway) but just to have his loyal, comforting presence helping Sherlock, the way it always helped him, even if John himself didn't know it.

"He's a spider, a spider at the center of a web…."

And Sherlock would never let John be tangled up in that web, not after what the mad man tried. And may try again.

I owe you.

Later, John described how Moriarty had smirked at him from his position at the defendant's seat. Sherlock pictured it with perfect clarity, and his stomach clenched.

I owe you, Sherlock.

You can harass me, taunt me, even try to burn me Jim Moriarty. But you stay away from what's Mine.

And He is Mine.

Daddy loves me the most, aren't ordinary people _adorable_?

You think I don't know what he means to you, Sherlock Holmes?

Pressure point.

Two months in, Sherlock watching every move the doctor made, and he still couldn't voice his rage about the way Mycroft manhandled John this time. He certainly tried though; he hoped Mycroft's ear was permanently damaged.

And yet he still couldn't believe the worst was yet to come.

Moriarty had made a promise, two promises now. They both came back to the same thing, destroying what was Sherlock's.

His reputation, any respect others may have had for him, his privacy, even his safety.

But that wasn't the final problem, oh no.

Sherlock had assumed that Moriarty thought Sherlock's life was the last thing he could take from the detective.

Once again, he'd underestimated the consulting criminal.

It was Sherlock's life he'd take, true, with the horror of keeping Sherlock breathing, thinking, functioning.

He would tear out Sherlock's beating heart when he took away John Watson.

Just because John was His.

Sherlock cracked John's computer password in less then ten seconds.

He hoped the doctor would continue to change it (he did) so that Sherlock could continue to break it (the detective did).

He enjoyed this extra, small way of looking into John Watson's mind, on the surface so ordinary but the extraordinary tendencies it possessed never failed to amaze Sherlock Holmes.

He wasn't used to being amazed.

He wasn't used to being figured out either.

John knew that Sherlock would always crack his password. Yet, he continued to change it. John never underestimated Sherlock.

Conclusion, John knew Sherlock enjoyed it; therefore he continued to do it and continued to sound annoyed. (John truly annoyed and John sounding annoyed were very different things, as the former was so rare that it stood out blatantly.)

He did it because Sherlock enjoyed both aspects of swiping John's laptop.

He let Sherlock swipe his food (at least you're actually eating) his tea (why didn't you just say yes when I asked if you wanted a cup as well?) even his time (for heaven's sake, I'm with a patient…..FINE JW)

Yet he never took anything from Sherlock and the detective found himself eventually wondering why.

When he asked John just shrugged. "What's mine is yours I suppose."

"That didn't answer my question, John."

"You've already given me what I needed and wanted, voluntarily. Before I could even start being your personal grocer slash errand boy."

Sherlock was perplexed and it showed.

John looked up at him and Sherlock saw that his dark, blue eyes were almost, tender. He gestured slightly around them.

"221b?"

A nod. "And?"

Conversations echoed in the room and Sherlock's eyes almost flitted over to where John's cane stood in the corner, gathering dust and forgotten.

*Want to see some more?*

"That's ridiculous, I _needed_ an assistant."

John shrugged. "Well, I don't play the violin or have a leaning towards body parts and hazardous chemicals so it'll have to do. And I still stand by what's mine is yours if you really need it, not that you actually ask."

"And it wasn't ridiculous to me."

Sherlock looked at him for a long time. "What's mine is yours as well, John."

John's kind face softened. "Thank you, Sherlock." The words stretched back to include months gone by. The tone reflected so much that Sherlock never realized. And it actually made him, happy; that he'd never deduced it so that John could show and tell him.

John's adrenaline level had gone down, albeit at a much slower rate than Sherlock's

Of course, John had been in the, company, of Moriarty for much longer than the consulting detective.

Sherlock grit his teeth so hard his jaw ached. He was helping John in and out of their taxi, back to Baker Street, even though John insisted that, aside from his goons, Moriarty hadn't really hurt him.

John was being vague but he was still his calm, optimistic self. Sherlock wanted this reaction, of course, but a different one would have been so much more in keeping.

John should be screaming at him for his arrogance, his idiocy, for lying to him. He had practically gift-wrapped the doctor and handed him over to that, mad man.

A slight clearing of the throat and Sherlock looked down to where he was grasping John's elbow. Sherlock's knuckles were white.

"Ouch."

"Sorry!" Sherlock jumped back as John opened the door to 221b.

"It's all right. Really, it's fine."

"But, John…"

John turned on the staircase. "Oh we'll discuss it but not right now. And not in that way."

"What way?" Sherlock grumbled in spite of himself.

John gave a short laugh. "There's no way _you_ can pretend to be stupid Sherlock. "

Sherlock met his friend's, best friend's eyes.

He plowed ahead.

"Why aren't you angry with me?"

"Did you tell Moriarty to kidnap me, some elaborate joke between the two of you that I'm the heel of?"

"Of course not."

John took a step closer to the taller man.

"Stop blaming yourself. You were an arrogant, idiotic sod, definitely. But Moriarty plays by a different set of rules Sherlock."

John sighed deeply and ran a hand through his short, blonde hair. "I've been trying to tell you, I…I hope that…"
"What? That I see it now?" Sherlock snapped furiously.

"That, well, you'll remember."

"Remember what, John?" Sherlock was becoming angry. These emotions, too much of a rollercoaster in one night. He, _he_ of all people, was losing control and John's calm understanding was putting unfamiliar pressure on his chest.

"Remember that he snatched you right off the street? That you won't tell me what he said or did? That you could have been killed maimed…"

"Sherlock."

"Remember that that, _bastard_ actually had the gall, the audacity to take you away from me, and lay his hands on, threaten what's Mine!"

Stunned silence.

Sherlock felt sick. It had all come out in a rush and now there would be, misunderstandings. For the first time, he actually understood how John felt when he tried to correct stupid people and their assumptions.

John would look at him now and his eyes would be changed and Sherlock didn't think he could stand that. John would join the ranks of Donovan and co., calling him a freak and a psychopath and believing it.

John, loyal, kind John, so different from that evil man who had distracted Sherlock from the one thing the detective might possibly kill for.

"John, I, when I said that, I meant…."

"Shut up, Sherlock." Sherlock's dark, curly head jerked up in surprise. There was no malice there whatsoever.

Only the older man's deep blue gaze that held something that Sherlock couldn't place. And Sherlock Holmes had a category for everything.

"He did it to hurt you, hurt us. We can't change that. I can keep begging you to just tell me before a situation like this can happen, let me continue to, if I even am, help you."

"Of course you are."

"But will you?" John almost looked, sad. Unacceptable.

"I know you understand, Sherlock. Now, at least." John put his hands on the lanky detective's shoulders.

"Understand what, exactly, John?"

"Draw a deduction, Mr. Consulting Detective." John gave him a brief hug which startled Sherlock into rigidity.

The doctor chuckled and continued his way upstairs.

None of John's reactions tonight made any sense. This is what John Watson did and Sherlock could not deduce a conclusion about the smaller man. He knew John's eating habits, sleeping habits, favorite tea, number of jumpers and shoe size.

The layers, however, continued to surprise him, underneath what he could see on the surface.

And suddenly there it was. Once more, so Obvious.

John wasn't angry or outraged at tonight's events or even Sherlock's blurted statement. John saw Sherlock in the same way. Mine.

And in the days and months that followed, Sherlock did not miss the game or James Moriarty. Something fundamental had changed.

He got a text, however, directly to his own phone. John was puttering about in the kitchen, grumbling about the eyelashes mixed in with a perfectly good tub of margarine and Sherlock was watching him out of the corner of his eye, his trademark half-smile on his face.

He pulled out the phone. It read

You think you can play this game and keep him safe? You need to learn to share, Sherlock Holmes. JM

He never answered John's repeated questions as to why he hurled the phone out of the window.

"One more miracle, for me."

It took everything in Sherlock's remarkable stamina not to reveal himself at that moment.

"Just, stop it, stop this…." John was crying softly and Sherlock's heart, everything that had changed so vitally inside of him felt like it was being pulled out. Torture.

Those words, terrible and beautiful. "And no one can convince me that you told me a lie."

Why are you saying this?

Shut up, Sherlock just shut up. You knew….

'No one could be that clever.'

You could

You could

You could

Sherlock knew he didn't deserve John's loyalty or his love but this went beyond anything he could know or research about human nature.

His John turned and walked away. Moriarty had certainly been a man of his word, even with John Watson alive, thank god, yet mourning.

Only a few days before, the faith and loyalty of the ex-soldier cemented what Sherlock had to do.

St. Bart's lab was quiet and John's eyes were drooping. Sherlock watched him and thought about Molly's words. Did he look, sad, now? When there was, perhaps, every reason to?

*Would you still help me even if….*

"Why didn't you ask me?" Sherlock said suddenly, jerking John out of his light doze.

"Hmm?" The doctor looked at him blearily.

"If it was true. He had documents, photographs; even I could have been taken in by that performance."

*And it makes sense, in some ways* was the unspoken conclusion to that train of thought.

"Oh, even you huh? No chance for us mere mortals?" John smirked.

"Don't avoid the question, John." Sherlock frowned and wondered why.

"Yes, Sherlock, I will because it's absolutely ridiculous." John's scorn was evident in every syllable.

Now Sherlock looked at him.

"Please, do you honestly believe that after a year of watching you and what you can do with that brain of yours that I would be taken in by a manila folder and a vindictive journalist?"

Sherlock felt something warm grow inside of his chest, right alongside the cold and the dread.

"Why, John?" And his voice actually, unbelievably, cracked. "Why this, you, why are you….?"

John just shook his head and stretched. "You're smarter than him, and especially Kitty." The doctor spat the name. "And we'll get out of this, as usual."

John's trademark smile. It was the first thing Sherlock thought of when he came to on Molly Hooper's metal table.

"Mycroft, please….tell me."

"You lost that right when you practically destroyed the man."

"You know why, you know! Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, he would have killed them. He would have killed John."

Mycroft Holmes stood implacable within 221b.

Mrs. Hudson, tears still dripping down her face, watched near the kitchen. Sherlock's face still stung from the slap.

Sherlock Holmes, even thinner and edgier if that was possible, paced like a wild animal in front of his older brother.

"Moran knows, he'll kill him. Mycroft, for god's sake."

"Sherlock, I have surveillance on the good doctor. Someone had to make sure he stayed safe despite his unhealthy obsession with suicidal activities."

Mrs. Hudson sobbed quietly.

"My apologies Mrs. Hudson. I know you tried. He couldn't stay here, therefore the need for more, detailed, observation."

Sherlock yanked at his short curls. 14 months, six days, three hours….twenty four minutes…..

Sherlock's countdown had never stopped. He couldn't delete it.

And now, when he could stand it no longer, when the danger he hoped he had eliminated had finally re-emerged, his damned brother stood in his way.

Sherlock only had a note, but he recognized the writing.

He'd been tracking the man, and eliminating the man's allies, dismantling the web as it were, every moment of his absence.

Then, only days before, he'd received it.

You took what was mine, now I'll take what was yours. Come out, come out wherever you are.

And Sherlock didn't need a signature to know exactly who had sent it.

He was frantic.

Mycroft hid his sympathy well. It wasn't too difficult, really. His own fury at his brother's actions and the, yea gods sentiment, pain at his brother's absence allowed his cold rage to hold Sherlock's pleading at bay.

Except Sherlock didn't act this way. This Sherlock had been chipped away, pulled, prodded and stretched. He had gone through agony that was worse than anything his drug withdrawals could induce.

The moment his colleagues had shown him what was transpiring at 221b Baker Street Mycroft made a painful decision.

He owed it to John Watson.

Sherlock finally stood up straight.

"If John dies…." He began, eyes flashing dangerously.

"Then you shall know perhaps a fraction of the pain the doctor has gone through this past year." It was the most heartless, unforgivable thing the brothers had said to each other.

Sherlock actually staggered back.

At that convenient moment, Mycroft's phone beeped. Mycroft Holmes' face drained of all color and Sherlock felt the room spin.

"There's been an incident."

Complete, frozen silence in the room.

"Dr. Watson has been shot."

The buzzing in the detective's ears somehow couldn't keep out Mrs. Hudson's sobbing or Mycroft's shouted explanations.

It was only when his brother hauled him over to the couch and forced him down, then grasped the younger man's head in his hands that Sherlock began to listen.

"Sherlock, SHERLOCK! Moran is dead, do you understand? We have all, I hope, underestimated the good doctor for the last time."

"J-John…..?" Sherlock whispered, weakly.

Mycroft sighed and his age showed then, suddenly.

"Wounded, that is all I know."

It was his room, his old room. John knew instinctively.

He'd been happy here and he'd tried being happy, after.

The memory of Mrs. Hudson's tired, sweet, tear-stained face still twisted his heart.

If he could have, he would. He never wanted to leave the dear woman. But, he just couldn't.

But the way the sunlight came through the window, the angles of the room, his bed, his space, everything shouted, no, bellowed, 'You belong here, John Watson'.

He'd never heard it until he went away.

He was here, again and his heart seized, again. He didn't even ask why, it was futile, asking why.

No violin, no gun shots, no annoying texts at all hours. No grotesque experiments, no body parts in the toilet, no toxins in the tea kettle.

No Sherlock.

John couldn't bear it.

He moved to sit up and felt a stabbing pain in his side.

Confused, he slowly opened his eyes. The ceiling, the way the light shifted, the familiar pressure at his back. All he recognized.

But the searing pain in his side he didn't

Eyes slit, he carefully pulled his jumper up, then his shirt. A bloody bandage stood out starkly and it all came barreling back.

The tall, scarred man. Sniper, ex-military, the light in his cold eyes something John recognized. Some men were eventually pushed over the edge.

Some men got to like what they were doing, to other soldiers, to civilians and then they became addicted to it. The violence, the killing.

This man took it to the next level. Not only did he enjoy it, he _reveled_ in it. It was all he had to live for.

A scuffle, a fight. John fleetingly wondered why the man hadn't just shot him through his sniper's aim. John wouldn't have asked these questions a year ago.

John was small and Sebastian Moran was large. Both were ex-military, both crack shots and only one had the morality to care about right and wrong.

Moran's bullet seared into John's side, missing his liver by inches. A fatal shot no doubt, had it landed.

But what Moran thought he'd felt for Jim Moriarty was false. Addiction can play you like a badly tuned piano and psychosis mixed with violence is not a love story.

Moriarty, and Moran by extension, didn't have friends. The concept was completely foreign to them.

Obsession, co-dependency, yes, absolutely. But friendship and love? Alien, unwelcome ideas.

So John's hands were steady and Moran's were not. John hated taking human life, even though this one could barely be classified as such.

It wouldn't bring Sherlock back.

But John had seen what Sherlock could become, in the insanity of Moriarty's mind. John looked at Sebastian Moran and was suddenly so grateful to the detective, for saving him, in so many ways.

"Th-thank you…." John murmured, voice softened by his pain.

A strong, long-fingered hand grasped his shoulder and gently moved him back onto the bed.

That touch, even a familiar, presence, nearly broke John's heart.

He had to leave, now. Now he was painfully reminded why he'd left 221b in the first place.

He made to sit up, eyes still unfocused when a deep voice stopped him completely.

"John, you need to lie still. A few ribs are broken, just, be still."

There was power and confidence in that voice, and heartbreak as well.

The hand gently stroked his forehead.

John finally managed to open his eyes.

The miracle he'd asked for long ago sat there, pain, no, despair even, in the pale eyes.

The hand continued to stroke John's forehead, his hair, the side of his face.

"John." Sherlock's deep voice whispered.

John wasn't dreaming, he wasn't hallucinating.

His dearest friend sat there and John knew, somehow, it was real.

"You…you…"

Sherlock looked panicked, his pain showing through his features so easily.

"You are, amazing."

Sherlock blinked.

"That's not what people normally say, eh? In these situations?" John whispered, his joy nearly choking him.

"A miracle, John. You asked for it, I received it. Forgive me."

"Could it be that I trust Sherlock Holmes?" John said, his emotions still playing clearly on his face, but the man in front of him was real. Real, and alive. And hugging him.

Sherlock let his tears leak out. Why was John this way, why? What had he done to have someone like John Watson in his life?

There are some questions that cannot be deduced. So he just let his mind surrender.

My dear Watson, my doctor, my colleague, my companion, my anchor, my aide, my comfort, my cure for the loneliness, my laughter given and received, my surprise, my new meaning in life, my adventurer, my soldier, my eye in the hurricane, my calm in the storm, my truth, my support, my conscience, my lesson, my study in faith, my compassion, my light, my inspiration, my friend, my soul mate, my heart, my life…My Everything.

Mine.

John's hand, smaller than Sherlock's long-fingered one, was rough and calloused. The doctor held on to this apparition turned real. They held onto each other and nothing, ever, not even time, could separate them.

"Mine." Sherlock whispered.

"Yours."