"It's fine. You'll be okay," said John as he helped the limping, bleeding professor up the stairs. "I'm a doctor. I'll fix you up."

Mrs. Hudson called from her room, "Is everything all right, John?"

John grunted. "Fine," he yelled back. "I've just got another one."

"I really am terribly sorry-" the professor mumbled, rubbing the glasses-shaped bruises that were rapidly forming around his startlingly blue eyes. The glasses in question were currently making a trail from the sidewalk in front of Speedy's to the front door of 221B.

"No," John said hurriedly. "It's all fine. I'm used to it." There had been an awful lot of scuffles on Baker Street lately. Minor fistfights, nothing worse, but quite a number of them. And somehow, he was always the one to patch everybody up afterwards. He was the calm one. He was the strong one, always ready with a helping hand, a soothing manner, and "I'm a doctor."

I'm the strong one. It was funny, if he thought about it. Which he didn't. Not often, anyway. It was too painful, even for him.

Yet again, John shoved those thoughts out of his mind and focused on helping the elderly professor into the flat. "Here, sit down," he said as he guided the man to the couch and then strode to the kitchen. "I'll get the first aid kit."

"Thank you very much," the man warbled as he sat down. "It's kind of you to help me."

"No problem," John replied as he rummaged through the kitchen drawers. "Where'd the bloody thing go…" What he had pulled out wasn't a first aid kit. It was a box of microscope slides, labeled "Kirkcudbright Killer." John stared at it for three seconds, and then shoved it back into the drawer, harder than he'd intended.

Finally he found the little white box, dusty from years of being purposely ignored, and took it out to the living room. Much to his surprise, the professor was pacing slowly in front of the couch. John stopped dead.

When the professor saw John, he stopped. "You know," he began in a distinctly non-warbly voice, "someone told me once that disguise is always a self-portrait."

John couldn't move. In that instant, his mind was split in two, fighting with itself, trying and not trying to unearth a memory. He knew those words from somewhere. He wasn't sure he wanted to know where.

The professor brushed his fluffy white hair back from his forehead – literally brushed it all back. The white hair – wig, John had to tell himself – fell onto the couch, revealing a distinctive black mop.

John only had so many options.

Option 1:

John's feet seemed to have a mind of their own. They carried him haltingly forward, till he was toe-to-toe (and chest-to-chest, and nose-to-nose) with the professor who wasn't a professor.

John's left arm had a mind of its own as well. His fist balled up.

The only words he could manage to say as his limbs reveled in their newfound autonomy were bloody-hell-you-bastard-why-do-you-think-you-can-do-this-you-didn't-even-fucking-call.

Option 2:

"What kind of a sick joke is this?" John choked out before passing out.

Option 3:

John reached out and tentatively laid a hand on the man's shoulder. He half expected it to fall through, as if this was no more than an apparition. Hell, he couldn't be sure that it wasn't an apparition.

"Are you real?" he managed to whisper as hand-on-shoulder progressed to hands-on-sallow-face and then to hands-on-everything. "Or am I just dreaming?" As an afterthought, he added, "Again."

What John actually did was far more embarrassing.

John wasn't sure how it actually happened, but the next thing he knew his face was buried in itchy tweed. As were his hands, arms, and his entire torso for that matter. He couldn't have cared less. He never wanted to let go.

Sherlock hadn't expected this kind of greeting. Frankly, he'd expected a couple more bruises to add to his already spectacular collection. It took him a minute, but eventually his arms wound around John. He'd never been one for physical affection, but to his surprise, he didn't really want to let go.

After what seemed like years (three, to be exact), John lifted his head. His face and Sherlock's coat lapel were both soaked. The only word he could get out was, "Why?"

Sherlock looked down at his best friend soul mate John, John, normally so stoic, ever the soldier, who was now crying, actually crying. There was so much he wanted to say to John.

All he said was, "Because I had to protect you."

It was too much. John buried his face once more in that godawful tweed and clung to Sherlock still tighter, trying to make up for three years of missed awkward glances, accidental touches, and not-so-accidental touches. He mumbled something that Sherlock didn't catch.

Maybe it was "I love you."

Maybe it was "idiot."

Maybe it was "it's all fine."

Right then, Sherlock would have been okay with anything.