A/N: This is slightly longer than the other chapters, but as it is the final chapter of the story, I figured you wouldn't mind to terribly! :) Enjoy!

John fought against the pain, consciously trying to erect a mental barrier to distance himself from it. He'd done that back when he was a kid.

No, no don't think about that.

He'd done it in the war when he'd taken shrapnel in his leg and kept moving, the day he was shot.

No. Leave that memory alone too.

Wiping the sweat and tears off his face, John reached out his free hand and asked weakly for his mobile. Greg grabbed John's coat and fished it out of the pocket. He handed it over with a worried look.

John turned it on and called Bill Murray.

"John! Are you all right? What happened? How did you…"

"I'm fine, Bill…" John broke off, his breathing still ragged.

"Bull. I know you well enough to know you're lying to me. What happened, how did you get away from him?"

"Of course you can," he replied to Bill's first statement. John choked back a laugh. "I dislocated my bad shoulder to twist out of his grip. Got a bit of a slice to my neck from a knife. We're going to the hospital to get stitches and reset my shoulder."

"Jeez, John. Are you sure…."

"I'm fine," John interrupted. "Really," he added at Bill's snort of disbelief. "Can you do me a favor? Make sure you keep an eye out. We're going to be coming out shortly and I don't want any surprises."

"You got it, mate. Once you're clear, a couple of us will stick around to make sure you get back in here safely."

"Bill," John's tone was firm, brooking no argument. "Just send the others on their way once we're rolling."

"Yeah, all right. As long as you're sure."

"I am Bill. We'll be fine now," John replied.

"You call me when you know what's going on with your shoulder. Clear?" Bill's voice was gruff with concern.

"Clear. And Bill?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell whoever took the shot, thanks."

"You're welcome, mate. A matching wound seemed appropriate, after all." Bill's voice was thick with emotion. John could tell he was struggling with the information he'd overheard.

John paused as the implication of Bill's words hit him. Quietly, his voice warm and grateful, he said, "Good shot," and ended the call.

Understanding John's reference and having overheard Bill's side of the conversation, Sherlock smiled and murmured, "Remind me to thank Bill later, as well."

oOOooOOooOOo

Seeing Mycroft had moved to the hallway, waiting for them, he looked between Sherlock and Greg. "Well, help me to my feet and let's get going. The sooner this is done, the sooner we can get home."

He smiled weakly at his friends as Sherlock helped him to his feet and Greg draped his coat over his shoulders.

They'd made it. They had reached the end of the night, Moran was in custody, and they were all alive.

The rush of relief made John light headed. As Sherlock wrapped an arm around his waist, John grabbed onto his shoulder with his good arm to stay on his feet.

Clinging to his friend as they descended the stairs, John could feel the shock from his injuries kicking in. Easing through the door of Mycroft's signature black car, he settled gratefully into the leather seat. Sherlock slid in next to him. Taking a blanket Mycroft handed over, he gently tucked it in around John.

Sitting in the seat facing them, Greg and Mycroft quietly spoke about Moran's future and who was handling what as far as holding him and prosecution. John let the conversation swirl around him. Resting his head against the back of the seat, he felt Sherlock shift closer as his eyes fluttered closed.

Moran's name echoed through his thoughts and pain in his shoulder flared as the car ran over a couple of potholes. His breath left him in a rush as John smelled blood in the hot, dry air. Sand gritted in his teeth, and he squeezed his eyes shut against the blazing sun. Moaning in pain, he shook his head side to side.

I'm not there. It's just a memory. Not real, not real…

Pushing back at the memories and panic, John fought to open his eyes. As he did, Sherlock's gray eyes swam into view and met his pain hazed blue ones.

John didn't realize he'd been digging his nails into his arm until Sherlock pried his hand free and took it in his own. No longer able to distance himself from the agony, his face turned gray as he clenched his jaw. He breathed deeply to attempt to reign in the fear and keep from vomiting all over the floor of Mycroft's car. With a desperate, wordless gasp, he clung to Sherlock's hand with a bone grinding grip as the pain from his shoulder radiated up and across his chest.

He could see the distress in Sherlock's eyes, but couldn't respond to it, couldn't do more than pant desperately for air against the band of panic constricting his breathing. He heard words being muttered and tried to understand them, before he realized they were coming from him. Black spots danced across his field of vision. John continued to cling to Sherlock's hand, attempting to anchor himself in the present, rather than giving in to the images in his mind. Slowly his field of vision narrowed, his hearing dimmed and he drifted away from the torment and into the darkness beyond.

oOOooOOooOOo

John slowly swam back to consciousness. As he tried to pry his eyes open, he could feel the lingering side effects of the morphine they must have given him when he'd arrived at the hospital. He blinked and squinted against the bright lights, trying to make out the vague shapes in the room.

"John?" A hand rested on his forehead, shading his eyes as they adjusted to the light.

"Sh'lock?" John's voice cracked and broke, and he started to cough, feeling a dull pain spring up as he jarred his shoulder.

Sherlock's hand dropped from his forehead, and a cup of water was pressed to his lips. Drinking greedily, he sighed and rested his head back against the pillow of the hospital bed he found himself in. Glancing around, he could tell he was still in one of the trauma rooms of the hospital's A & E department.

Clearing his throat, John tried again. "Sherlock, how long was I out?"

"One hour and seventeen minutes," Sherlock said as he settled in the plastic chair next to John. "You would have woken sooner, but they gave you morphine right away so they could keep you relaxed enough to relocate your shoulder and stitch up the cut on your neck."

"As soon as they knew you would be all right, Mycroft and Greg headed out to deal with their separate paperwork that this affair with Moran has created them," he continued.

Sherlock answered John's next question before he could ask. "As for you, nothing was broken, just severely pulled muscles and some torn ligaments. It will be painful for a while, but no lasting damage. Your knee is sprained, from the kick you took. They wrapped it for you. Your ribs are bruised, not cracked or broken. And yes, once you're fully conscious and the doctor is satisfied with your condition, you will be released."

John smiled slightly at the factual run-down from his friend. His outward, detached rendition was belied by the concern in his eyes and the faint worried furrow on his brow.

"Sherlock, I'm fine."

"Of course you are. You took on Moran when I was incapacitated. You sustained injuries from your fight with him. You risked severe damage to your shoulder, attempting to get out of the way of the snipers. You called out our code before you were even fully out of the way. You also had a panic attack that exacerbated your pain levels and passed out in the back of Mycroft's car."

Sherlock huffed out an aggravated sigh. "You're fine. Just fine."

"Sherlock, I did what I had to do. There was no way I was going to just let him go!" In an undertone he added, "Or let him take us."

"I know, John. I know. I understand. It's just… I was…" Sherlock was interrupted by the arrival of the doctor.

Eyes warm with understanding and compassion, John reached out and closed his hand around Sherlock's wrist as he picked at edge of John's blanket. Turning his attention to the doctor, John knew no words were needed when he felt Sherlock shift his hand in John's grasp until he was able to press two fingers lightly against John's pulse point.

oOOooOOooOOo

Three hours later, dawn was just lightening the sky as John and Sherlock found themselves on the sidewalk outside the hospital.

John heard Sherlock huff as a sleek black car pulled up right in front of them. His head swimming with a combination of exhaustion and the fresh dose of pain medication he'd been given, John stumbled as he started to make his way to Mycroft's car.

Sherlock's grumbling cut off as he immediately jumped to John's side. Wrapping an arm around his waist, he steadied and held him up. Only half aware of his surroundings, John allowed himself to fully rely on Sherlock's strength and guidance. He felt himself being lowered to the seat of the car. He vaguely sensed Sherlock's warmth next to him as he stayed close for support.

Blinking hard, he kept his eyes open long enough to see the two of them were alone in the car.

"It's all right now, John. Just rest. I'll still be here when you wake up."

John mumbled a vague assent, then lowered his head to gently come to rest against Sherlock's shoulder. Slowly relaxing, he felt his strength swirl away from him. His eyes fluttered shut as utter and complete fatigue pulled him under. Feeling safe and at peace for the first time in a long time, John succumbed to the gray mist of sleep.

oOOooOOooOOo

One week later

John sat straight up, his eyes wildly scanning his room. Finally registering where he was, he flopped back on the bed, hissing when the pain in his shoulder flared up as he did. He wished he could sleep without bumping it during the night. When he did, it triggered dreams of the day he was shot.

This one was particularly nasty as every soldier he treated had silvery eyes and dark curly hair. The boy he'd fallen over after he'd been shot had called his name, using Sherlock's voice, just before he woke.

He couldn't keep doing this. He needed to sleep. Slowly sitting back up again, John reached to his bedside table and shook out a couple pain killers into his hand. Fumbling for the glass of water he swallowed the pills, and settled back down. Hoping the narcotics didn't trap him in a dream, he tried to relax.

Still shaking, he draped his arm over his eyes, ignoring the tears on his cheeks. He didn't see the shadow under his door that stayed there until his breathing slowed and evened out.

oOOooOOooOOo

John blinked in the light coming in around his curtain and gently stretched out his right leg, testing his knee before sitting on the edge of his bed. Then he carefully did a couple of stretches for his shoulder. Physically, John was slowly healing from the fight a week ago. However, the nightmares were wrecking havoc with his sleep patterns. At least the pain medication had helped him fall back asleep after his nightmare last night.

Sighing and scrubbing at his eyes tiredly, he stood and eased into his dressing gown, settling his arm back into his sling.

John walked through the kitchen to the sitting room, settling in his chair with a fresh cup of tea and the paper. Leaving the paper folded on his lap, he lifted his cup to his lips, and looked through the swirls of steam at the couch.

Sherlock had been sprawled out, one arm dangling limply off the edge of the cushions, when John had come downstairs. He'd looked so relaxed, John didn't want to disturb him if he was on the edge of sleep. John had just smiled at him and nodded when Sherlock cracked open his eyes, and continued to the kitchen to make tea.

Now however, Sherlock's whole body radiated tension. His elbows were tucked in at his sides, his hands steepled under his chin. He'd drawn up his knees, so his feet could tuck in between the cushions and wrapped his dressing gown tightly around him as if pulling on armor.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock twitched slightly, his only response to John's voice. He continued to ignore the mug of tea John had made for him and set on the coffee table.

John sighed. "Sherlock, is something wrong?"

If possible, Sherlock tensed up even further before saying tightly, "No. Thinking."

John shook his head and sighed again. He put down his tea, and picked up his paper one-handed. Staring blankly at the page in front of him, John reflected back on this last week. Sherlock had been quite attentive the first couple of days, intent on making sure that John was truly all right. When he finally stopped hovering, he went out to make contact again with his Homeless Network as… well… himself and not Ollie.

However, the tension within the confines of 221B Baker Street was steadily increasing.

John didn't know what to make of it. At the beginning, he'd found himself jumping quite often when Sherlock made a noise around the flat, but that was subsiding as he became accustomed to him being home again.

He found himself constantly watching Sherlock, checking to make sure he was still there. He figured he'd eventually get over it, but maybe it was John's focus on Sherlock's whereabouts that make him seem so off.

Underlying Sherlock's terse manner, there was a frustration and an anger slowly building. John didn't know what to do about it or how to diffuse it. He conceded that it could be a lack of anything significant to do. They were waiting on the final word from the Yard, if Sherlock could be an official consultant. Once that was completed, they both would have full access to crime scenes. Sherlock seemed keen on staying around the flat, staying near John, but it was getting harder to act like things were all right, when they certainly weren't.

John shook his head and put down his paper, to pick up his tea again. A couple of nights ago, he and Sherlock went to dinner with Mrs. Hudson, Greg and Molly for the first time since he'd been back. It was the only time all week that John saw Sherlock relax and seem even remotely like himself.

He hoped things would settle soon. This wasn't exactly what he'd been expecting once Sherlock was able to officially come home.

oOOooOOooOOo

The morning wore on accompanied by the clinking of glass as Sherlock set up his science equipment and microscope on the kitchen table again. John walked around him to retrieve his laptop and the framed photo of the two of them off the end of the counter. He wandered to the desk, setting the two items down. John thought fondly of the times, before, when he and Sherlock had worked on their own things around the flat. They hadn't needed constant conversation. There had been a comfortable, comforting peace as they worked or relaxed near each other.

However, this silence was anything but comfortable. Sherlock barely said two words to him, just muttered under his breath. He brushed past him roughly and frequently went to his room, slamming his door shut behind him.

Finally, Sherlock spoke. Rather, he yelled through his closed bedroom door.

"John! Where are the rest of my beakers and my chemicals?" He stormed out of his room and down the hall to the kitchen. "Don't tell me you threw them out!"

John pinched the bridge of his nose, attempting to reign in the confusion and frustration that had steadily mounted with every loud noise and muffled curse.

"Why would I throw them out? I never touched your science stuff. Did you look in 221C? Maybe you overlooked a box down there."

"Of course I didn't overlook anything, John. Don't be stupid," Sherlock snapped, his tone cold and contemptuous.

John stared for a moment at the man in front of him. Sherlock's face looked like it had been chiseled out of marble. His silvery eyes pierced through him, analyzing and deducing his every word and expression. The distance in his attitude and actions cut into John more than Sherlock's words and tone had.

This man was a far cry from the one who had walked back into his life just over a week ago. He knew Sherlock would never be emotive, especially outside of the flat. However, something had changed since Moran's arrest, or rather, since the day after his arrest and their return from the hospital. He felt like he was looking at the stranger his flatmate had been when they first moved in together.

Squaring his shoulders and lifting his chin, John stared straight back into Sherlock's shuttered eyes. Forcing his frustration and confusion out of his voice, his face carefully blank, he said, "I have no idea where all of your things are. Don't you recall me telling you I wasn't able to bring myself to touch any of your things?" John internally cursed his voice for wavering on the last few words. "If you can remember your manners and act civilized, maybe Mrs. Hudson can help you."

"That's rich, John. Mrs. Hudson was the one who had to pack things away? I suppose I shouldn't have expected a crippled army doctor to be able to handle moving it for her. I mean really, as soon as I was dead you just fell apart. Interesting. Had I realized the extent of your dependency, I would have experimented with your issues far sooner."

Sherlock sneered, "A broken down army doctor, falling back on the family crutch of alcohol, barely able to do his job and redeveloping a psychosomatic limp after the loss of a colleague. I should have known you would revert to your previous dull existence, like the rest of the ordinary masses that wander this city."

"You just couldn't keep up, ever. Don't worry about your feeble attempts to help Lestrade. Now that I'm back I can help him actually catch up on his case load. I don't need you." Sherlock's voice got impossibly colder. "You're just dead weight, and I refuse to drag along someone so useless and inept."

John mentally reeled under the verbal attack. Every word purposely aimed at his weaknesses and insecurities shredded him a little more. John gaped at Sherlock for a moment, then said in a stunned voice that quickly filled with anger, "How. Dare. You! Who do you think you are, to talk to me like that? After all that I… What gives you the right…" John interrupted himself, stumbling over his own words. "Do you… No, no. Just. No! We're not doing this!"

John snapped his mouth shut before he could say anything he might regret. Swiping up the photo off the top of his computer on the desk, he turned and nearly marched out of the room and up the stairs. Kicking his door shut behind him, he walked over to his bed and sank down on it, staring at the picture in his hand, the anger quickly drained out of him, leaving him breathless and confused.

Looking down at photograph of the smiling face and warm eyes of his best friend, he whispered, "What the hell is going on, Sherlock? I don't understand."

Gently standing the photo on his bedside table, John turned and lay down on his back, his head on his pillow. He could hear Sherlock pacing restlessly downstairs. He scrolled back through the last five days or so, replaying all their interactions. His lips thinned and pressed tightly together as he realized how many times Sherlock had thrown insults his way in that short amount of time. Every question had been deflected, every comment sneered at, and every conversation shut down.

John realized that even though Sherlock was physically back, he desperately longed for his best friend to return, as well.

Angrily, John scrubbed at his face with the sleeve of his dressing gown. Changing quickly out of his pajamas and pulling on warm clothes, he put his arm back in the sling, strapping it in place as snuggly as he could. He left his room, descending the stairs rapidly.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock looked up at the door, pausing in his pacing.

"Where are you going?" he snapped.

"Out," John said, shortly.

"Where," demanded Sherlock.

"Observe and deduce, Sherlock. You're so good at it after all." John all but spat the words at him, bitterness coloring his tone. He turned abruptly, nearly running down the stairs and out the door.

Sherlock moved quickly to the window, nearly vibrating with suppressed frustration and anger. He watched John storm down the street, cradling his arm, but nearly jogging in his effort to flee Baker Street more quickly.

He spun away from the window, stalking through the kitchen to his bedroom and slammed the door. Flopping down dramatically on the bed, he closed his eyes to better picture how John looked before he ran down the stairs.

Eyes suspiciously shiny and red rimmed. Blue eyes normally warm and friendly, appeared icy and distant. Body radiated tension and anger. Trainers on his feet and layered against the cool weather.

I hurt him and made him angry with me. He's prepared to walk, or run, and stay out for a while based on the shoes and layers.

Sherlock groaned, reached for a pillow, and wrapped himself around it. He didn't know what he was doing or what was wrong with him. He just wanted things back to normal, but John had said they needed to talk later. The likelihood of their conversation having a positive outcome was decreasing hourly the longer it was delayed. Trying to distance himself from John was proving harder than he thought, now that he was home. His reaction and the subsequent sentiment would be nearly intolerable once John threw him out.

He curled into a ball on his side, clutching the pillow tighter. Slowly his exhaustion took over and the tension drained out of him. His eyes fluttered shut as his mind drifted. Sherlock's fists eventually relaxed and his breathing deepened as he drifted to sleep.

Impressions, not images flooded Sherlock's dreams. He shook his head back and forth in his sleep against the terror invading his mind. Stubbornly, Sherlock clung to the knowledge he was on his bed in his room trying to force himself awake. Fighting against the demons of his sleeping thoughts, he burst into the waking world, muffling his shout in the pillow in his arms.

Rolling onto his back, he fished his mobile from the pocket of his dressing gown and saw he'd only been asleep an hour. Rubbing his face, he was frustrated partially that he'd not been able to sleep longer without the dreams, but also that he'd been unable to avoid sleep. Sherlock sat up on the edge of his bed.

Pulling himself to his feet, Sherlock meandered back through the kitchen to the sitting room, and to the window behind his chair. Leaning his head against the cool window, he stared vacantly at the street below. Eventually he turned his back on the outside world and scanned the sitting room once before his eyes rested on his violin case.

Kneeling down, he reached over and carefully opened the case. Reverently, he touched the strings of his violin, setting them humming. Gently he lifted the instrument from its case and slowly set about tuning it. He picked up the bow, and with it poised above the strings, he paused.

Sherlock froze in that position, other than the slight trembling of his hands. He closed his eyes, desperately wanting to draw the bow across the strings, but unable to bring himself to do so.

After nearly thirty minutes, he allowed his arm holding the bow drop to his side. This was the closest he'd gotten to playing since he'd returned. He desperately wanted to, but something kept stopping him. Eventually he lowered the delicate instrument and rested it back in its case.

Putting everything back where he'd found it, the room suddenly felt oppressive. He found himself struggling for air. He reached out and partially opened the window. Moving quickly to the other one, he opened it as well for good measure. He backed away a couple of steps before he turned and rushed over to the sofa, flinging himself down on it. Sherlock lost himself in his thoughts as time ebbed.

oOOooOOooOOo

He kept replaying the monologue Moran had given while he was holding John captive. He could see John's fury as Moran revealed he'd been the one to shoot John and end his career. Though Sherlock couldn't be sorry that John got sent home, since it meant they had the opportunity to meet, he despised the idea that Moran had caused it.

As Moran had described what he was going to do to John, to torture him just to use him to get to Sherlock, he'd felt himself start to fall apart. It had been worse than seeing John strapped into the Semtex. The panic that had come over John's face when Moran described his creativity made Sherlock think that Moran had been "creative" with John before. The idea made him feel nauseous.

On their way to the hospital, the panic attack John had in the car frightened Sherlock. When he dug his fingernails of his good hand so hard into his other arm, John started to draw blood. Just before he passed out from the pain and the erratic breathing pattern, he mumbled something. Words Sherlock hoped to never hear again. Though Sherlock knew logically John had been experiencing a flash back due to the injury of his shoulder, hearing him say "Please God, let me live," nearly made his heart stop.

Then Sherlock had talked to Bill Murray. He'd called him to thank him for taking the shot that put Moran out of commission. In the course of their conversation, Bill said something about a prearranged plan. Sherlock pretended understanding until Bill spelled out the whole thing. John had arranged with Bill that if he was in Moran's hands, and called out their signal, the snipers were supposed to take the shot at Moran, even if it was through John.

Bill assured Sherlock he'd never passed that order on to the other snipers. He'd insisted if John was determined that they had to go through him to take out Moran, he would be the one to do it. Bill had refused to let anyone else take responsibility for a shot like that but himself.

Sherlock was still struggling with the idea that John had effectively ordered Bill to shoot him just to incapacitate Moran. He knew it was similar to what he'd done that day on the roof of St. Bart's, but it felt completely different. His head knew that John's willingness to be shot, just to take out Moran to protect him was no different than Sherlock's willingness to jump to protect John. However, something inside of him was protesting, and he didn't understand.

oOOooOOooOOo

When his mobile pinged with an incoming text, Sherlock nearly flipped himself off the sofa in his hurry to answer it. Glancing at the time, he realized John had been gone over six hours. He frowned at the screen, recognizing Greg Lestrade's number.

What the hell did you do, Sherlock? GL

…

Let me rephrase that. What the hell did you say? GL

Have you seen John? SH

Answer my question first. GL

Ah. So you have. SH

I didn't say that. Stop stalling. GL

If you didn't see him, then he must have told you what I said. SH

No. He didn't. That's why I'm asking. GL

Wait. Never mind. GL

I don't want to know. I just want you to fix it. GL

…

…

There is no fixing this, Greg. SH

Are you seriously giving up after all you've gone through to keep us safe, to keep him safe? GL

I said many inexcusable things. I don't think there is any way John is coming back here, other than for his belongings. SH

That's not true and you know it. GL

I know him. And so do you. I saw how he was when you were gone. There is no way he is going to walk away from you now. I don't know what you said. I don't need to. But whatever it was hurt him badly and made him angry. He just needs to cool off a bit before he comes home. GL

I don't know what to do. SH

I won't hold that against you. GL

…

When he gets home, talk to him. Whatever is wrong that's causing you to act the way you are, it's not going to get better unless you talk to him. GL

Promise me, Sherlock. GL

Sherlock looked for a long moment at that last text. He wearily dropped his head and tried to think a few minutes before he started typing again.

All right. I promise. As long as I can have a place to stay when he kicks me out.

Before he hit send, Sherlock looked again at what he'd typed. Pausing, he deleted it and started over.

All right. I will talk to him. SH

Thank you. GL

Sherlock nearly groaned in frustration as he tossed his mobile down on the coffee table. Curling up in the corner of the sofa, he waited for John to decide to return home.

oOOooOOooOOo

Hours after he'd left, John returned to Baker Street. Sighing, he opened the door and slipped out of his trainers before climbing the stairs. No lights were on, and there were no signs of life.

Hoping Sherlock was sleeping for the first time in three days, he moved as quietly as he could all the way up to his room. Grabbing pajamas and robe, he headed for a shower. Waiting for the water to heat, John knew he hadn't done his shoulder any favors by staying out so long in the damp air and letting himself get so cold. He stepped into the steaming shower, allowing it to ease his aching muscles. By the time he finished and dressed, his body felt more relaxed, but the ache in his heart and the anxiety in his mind remained.

Chewing on his lower lip in worry, he took a deep breath and descended the stairs, determined to take Greg's advice from their earlier conversation. One way or another he was going to get to the bottom of what was happening with his friend.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock still sat curled up on the end of the sofa, immoveable as a statue. He deduced John was hoping he was sleeping, by the care he took coming in. From his rate of his footfalls on the stairs and purposely controlled breathing pattern, he knew John had walked nearly the entire time he'd been gone.

Nearly seven hours of wandering the city nonstop. Despite himself, and the cutting, damaging remarks he'd made earlier, he was more than impressed. He didn't dare breathe as John paused on the landing outside the sitting room before continuing up to his room. He relaxed a little when he heard John's shower start, knowing he had a little more time to gather his thoughts and prepare himself.

The only problem was, he didn't know what to say.

Keeping as still as possible, he heard John descend the stairs again and head directly for the kitchen. The small light over the sink clicked on, spilling gently through the door to the sitting room, providing just enough illumination to make out the shapes of the furniture. The muted sounds of John filling the kettle and preparing tea filtered out of the kitchen.

He heard John sigh and pick up something from a kitchen chair. Material. Heavy. It must be my coat.

John padded silently around the corner of the kitchen to the sitting room, and gently hung the Belstaff on a hook behind the door. Occupied with what he was doing, he didn't glance toward the sofa, didn't notice Sherlock sitting there watching him from underneath his hair that hung low over his eyes.

Sherlock froze as he watched John reverently run his free hand down the side of the coat once he hung it. With great care, he folded Sherlock's scarf and slid it into one pocket, then laying his leather gloves together, slid them into the other.

He heard John's gentle sigh, heavy with emotion. Possible sorrow?

Then he whispered quietly, to himself, "His coat's here, so hopefully he is, unless… No, he has to be here." Rubbing his forehead head wearily, he muttered something else under his breath that Sherlock didn't catch, before walking back into the kitchen.

After only taking a couple of steps, he heard John pause, then continue through the kitchen, down the hall to his room. There was a gentle tap on the partially closed door, and John called softly, "Sherlock? Are you in here?" A moment later, he heard his door swing open, then John's footsteps returned to the kitchen after finding no one.

Sherlock pressed his forehead against his knees, knowing he was moments away from being discovered by John. Despite himself, he felt his heart rate increase, along with his breathing. He clasped his arms more tightly around his legs and waited. He heard John pause as the kettle clicked off, then a few more steps and a sharp intake of breath as he cleared the doorway and spotted him in the dim light.

oOOooOOooOOo

When John realized Sherlock had to be in the flat and wasn't in his room, he knew instinctively where he was. Sure enough, peering through the gloom, he saw the dark shadow of his friend, curled up in one corner of the sofa.

Taking in his defensive position and tension radiating from him, John breathed Sherlock's name gently.

Sherlock didn't move as John walked slowly closer, taking in more details as his eyes adjusted to the dim lighting. As he neared his side, Sherlock's hands gripped the sides of his legs and his head burrowed even further into his knees, his shoulders hunched. He flinched when John's fingers ghosted over his shoulder, before settling there.

John could feel minute shivers running through his friend. Even his shoulder was cool to the touch. John became aware of the icy temperature of the room for the first time. Glancing at the windows, he saw both partially open, letting in the cold, damp night air.

Cursing under his breath, he snatched the blanket off the back of the sofa, forcing Sherlock to lean forward far enough to tuck it behind him, bringing the ends around in front of him. Kneeling down next to him, he laid his hand over one of Sherlock's hands where it clenched the fabric of his trousers. Gently prying at the frozen fingers, he finally got Sherlock to hang onto the blanket instead, to keep it wrapped around him.

Moving swiftly from his side, John slammed the windows shut and knelt down by the fireplace. He knew he needed to get Sherlock warmed up. Even with only one mobile arm, he made short work of getting the fire started. Heading back to the kitchen, John pulled down a second mug to make tea for the infuriating man curled up so miserably on the sofa.

oOOooOOooOOo

Placing two steaming mugs of tea on the coffee table in front of Sherlock, he disappeared back through the kitchen, returning dragging Sherlock's duvet behind him.

"Come on, uncurl a bit and let me get this around you."

Sherlock silently cooperated, dropping his knees and tucking his feet under him. As John yanked the duvet behind him awkwardly with one hand, Sherlock reached out and helped pull it the rest of the way around him. John handed him his tea, then sat down on the other end of the sofa with his own.

John stared at the fire, cupping his hands around his mug. He could feel Sherlock staring at him, but refused to make eye contact. He didn't guard his thoughts or expressions, but didn't offer anything up either. After all that had happened that day, and his own conversations with Phoebe and Greg, Sherlock had to start this one.

He knew he'd baffled Sherlock by his obvious concern, taking care of him as soon as he'd found him. Especially after the verbal abuse that had been hurled at him before he left that morning and the amount of time he'd been gone. But, if John had learned nothing else during his life, it was how to be patient. He could feel Sherlock shift uncomfortably on the couch, and knew his wait was almost over.

Finally Sherlock spoke.

oOOooOOooOOo

"John…" Sherlock paused, his voice sounding oddly thick. He cleared his throat and started again.

"John, can we just get this over with?"

"Get what over with, Sherlock?" John turned to see Sherlock's eyes peering at him from the bundle of blankets, shining in the firelight.

"The talk you said we needed to have. You said to lock everything away until we were done with Moran. I did. But we still haven't talked." Sherlock spoke quietly into the darkened room, but John could hear a whole mix of underlying emotions.

John reflexively closed his eyes and grimaced in sympathy as the implications hit him. Sherlock had been waiting this whole week for John to start their conversation regarding his decisions before and during his confrontation with Moriarty, and his actions after the fact, and John's reaction to it all. And, judging from the emotions he was trying to hide, Sherlock had been figuratively bleeding out in front of him all week.

Sherlock kept talking, unaware of John's realization. "I know that you're upset. When most people say 'we need to talk' it doesn't bode well for the relationship. So, just get it over with and leave, or I will leave, whichever you deem appropriate."

"Sherlock…" John said.

"You might have to give me a couple of days. Though I suppose I could stay with Mycroft until I find another flat to…"

"Sherlock!" John thumped his mug down on the coffee table.

His exclamation and action caused Sherlock to jump and stop talking. He turned to look at John, his face forced into an expression of neutrality, and his eyes guarded. He looked as if he were ready to just hear John's confirmation of his expectations. He appeared to be ready to launch off the couch in a matter of moments.

John scrubbed a frustrated hand over his face, then through his hair.

"Sherlock, I am not going to kick you out. Nor am I going to leave you…"

"No, John. You don't need to try to spare me. I know that I betrayed your trust, and I now know how much I hurt you with my absence and not letting you know I was still alive. The week before we captured Moran showed me how much I underestimated your acting capabilities." He shook his head. "I always underestimate you," sighed Sherlock. Setting down his mug on the coffee table, he turned his face away, looking towards the window.

The glimpse John saw of Sherlock's face reflected an immeasurable sorrow. John's breath caught in his throat. In response, he moved across the sofa to sit right next to Sherlock.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock stared out the window in the dark. The pain and sadness welling up within him was nearly overwhelming. He'd hidden everything away until they had gotten Moran, just as John had asked. Now, he didn't know what to expect. The uncertainty was unnerving, especially when all he could imagine was what he would do himself at such a betrayal.

The knowledge that John was willing to be shot just to get Moran out of the picture, was causing him to struggle with a few unwanted emotions.

But John. John was much more emotional and reactive than he was. And Sherlock's actions had consequences that reached much further. He understood that these years had been hard for John. Perhaps it was too much to expect from him to hope...

Sherlock was jolted out of his thoughts by a hand on his shoulder.

John's voice sounded in his ear. "Sherlock, I need you to look at me."

Sherlock turned at the tone of John's voice more than because of what he said. John's voice was soft, and when he looked at his friend, he saw only concern and gentleness. Before he could say anything, John stopped him.

John looked at him earnestly, hiding nothing. "I am not going to abandon you. I just got you back. There is no way I am walking out on you."

Sherlock tried to speak.

"No. Wait. I'm not done yet," John interrupted.

Sherlock watched as John closed his eyes for a moment to gather his thoughts.

"First, I am not leaving, or kicking you out. Just get that idea right out of your head and out of the way. Second, you have to hear this too."

John paused and took a deep breath. "You did what you had to do. You made the best decision you could have in an intolerable situation. In the all out war Moriarty started, you made the end move, doing the only thing possible to save as many people as you could with no assurance of the outcome."

Sherlock studied John intently for a moment. John's expression was earnest and his blue eyes were full of warmth and sincerity. He thought John couldn't surprise him more, until he heard his next words.

"And if I had been in your place, I would have done the same thing."

Sherlock inhaled sharply and then, as he breathed out, he felt some of his tension dissipate.

"You did," Sherlock whispered, "With your decision about how to take out Moran."

John looked at him intently, before admitting quietly, "You're right, I guess I did that too, didn't I?

Sherlock slowly slid further back on the sofa, and slouched down, resting his head on the back. John settled in next to him, propping his feet up on the coffee table.

Their shoulders brushed as John laughed a bit. "You are such an idiot sometimes, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowned, trying to figure out what exactly John meant.

As if he sensed Sherlock's consternation, John said, "We could have avoided this whole day, if you'd only talked to me once I was feeling better. It would have been so much easier."

Sherlock huffed a bit and said, "I rarely do anything the easy way, it seems."

John laughed lightly, "No, no you don't."

Sherlock felt his lips lift in a slight smile before he sobered again, turning slightly to see John's face. "John, what I said before – um, before you left." Sherlock paused then continued in a rush. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. None of it was true. I – I was just…"

John reached over and laid a gentling hand on Sherlock's arm. Sherlock could feel his muscles slowly relax under his friend's touch.

"I forgive you," John said. "And, I'm sorry too. I didn't think about you. I have been so thankful to have you back that I have just been trying to soak that in, and forgot about the conversation we needed to have. I realize now you were trying to push me away to protect yourself before I pushed you away."

As John talked, Sherlock allowed himself to unwind further and let down his guard. Now that he knew John wasn't going to kick him out of his life, he found the heaviness that had weighed him down all week start to lift. Feeling a tug on the edge of his duvet he glanced down at John's hand with a frown before looking back up at his face.

John smiled and said, "We can at least start this conversation tonight, but you have got to share some of this duvet with me. It's still bloody cold in here because some git opened the windows!"

Sherlock chuckled slightly and untangled himself so he could share half the blanket with his friend. As they settled in for a long overdue discussion, he let himself realize that now it honestly was over. He was done.

The final problem had been solved.

Sherlock knew it was going to take time and hard work to lay out new boundaries and guidelines; to rebuild their friendship; to come back to life. But it would worth all of it because they could do it together. They no longer had to be alone.

oOOooOOooOOo

Two weeks later, John turned the corner onto Baker Street. He'd finished a long day at the HNM Care. It was late, and his leg was aching. He hoped that he and Sherlock could just have a night in. They'd finished with a case very late Friday night, and he'd only had three hours of sleep going into a long day at one of the shelters.

Opening the door and hanging his jacket on the hook at the bottom of the stairs, John paused as he heard a familiar sound drift down from above. Toeing out of his shoes, John picked them up and silently made his way up to the flat.

Avoiding all the steps that creaked, John paused in the doorway to the sitting room. He leaned his right shoulder against the doorframe, smiling at the sight in front of him.

Sherlock stood, silhouetted in front of the window, his violin resting under his chin, swaying in time to the sweet melody swirling around him. John's smile grew wider as he watched his friend, whose eyes were closed, as he fully engaged in the music.

John quietly set his shoes down just outside the door and padded his way to the kitchen. Starting the kettle, he dropped tea bags into two mugs. Carefully stretching both arms above his head before dropping them to his sides, John leaned his back against the counter and watched his friend until the kettle clicked off. Turning to the mugs, John poured the water in, and waited for them to steep. The familiar act of making tea helped him slowly release the tension from the day.

Adding cream to Sherlock's mug, and cream and sugar to his own, he stirred them and then headed into the sitting room. Approaching Sherlock, he set his tea down on the desk nearby. As he headed back to his chair he heard Sherlock hum his acknowledgement. John smiled to himself again as he settled in his chair by the fire. He held his mug close to his face, feeling himself warmed from the inside out.

oOOooOOooOOo

Sherlock studied his friend from underneath his half closed lids. The firelight flickered across John's face as he slowly sipped his tea and stared into the flames. He hadn't said a word as he'd come in. As a matter of fact, Sherlock hadn't noticed he'd come home until he was already in the kitchen starting tea. He could tell that John hadn't wanted to disturb him, as this was the first time he'd actually heard Sherlock play since he'd returned.

Sherlock noted that John added extra cream and sugar to his own tea. John only did that when he'd had a hard day and was exceptionally tired, or was feeling sick. Observing the state of his clothes and expression on his face, Sherlock surmised it was the difficulty of the day and the patients he saw at the HNM Care rather than a personal illness that prompted the change.

Seamlessly, Sherlock switched to Brahms, picking a piece John had always responded to. As he did, he saw John's expression lighten. Their eyes met and John's reflected honest appreciation and admiration. The corners of Sherlock's lip curled slightly in a smile in response.

He watched in satisfaction as John let the rest of his concerns go in response to the music. As the melody washed through the flat, down the stairs and even through Mrs. Hudson's door, where she was listening in, it swept out the cobwebs of sorrow and loneliness. In its wake, the lilting notes wove a sense of peace, hope and even love. There would be arguments and slammed doors, moments of sadness and loss, but also ones of joy and happiness, laughter and playfulness.

In other words, things would return to normal.

Well, as normal as anything ever got at 221B Baker Street.

a/n: The end! Thank you so much to all of you who have been following and reading this! There may be more in this "Universe/head canon" that I have going. Whether that fits in with the Season 3 episodes or not, that remains to be seen. If not, consider this a slight AU! I hope you enjoyed. After a brief break, more stories will be forthcoming. I just put every other plot bunny on vacation as I finished this story, so I could actually complete it! Now I have to call various plot bunnies back to work. We'll see how it goes! ;)

Thank you again for all your support! I could have never done this without you!

Blessings! hjohn302