%&%&%

Minutes after…

Dimmock had been unable to hold them back.

They'd run to their Mage even before the last drops of fire had splashed into the Thames, extinguishing themselves with nary a sound. The sky above them was clear once more – in fact there was absolutely no sign at all that only moments ago they had been in the midst of a maelstrom of energy that had threatened to rip the city apart.

John wasn't breathing.

Sherlock, for all his genius and knowledge of anatomy, was useless in the face of panic and despair and simply moaned, petting John's hair as if the touch would somehow kickstart the smaller man into breathing again.

It was Geoff who bent double on the cold, wet bridge and breathed for the Mage, forcing air into still lungs for two endless minutes before John gasped and choked, coughing back into life under his hands.

%&%&%

Hours after…

The machines were annoying. They beeped and flashed and got in the way. Had Sherlock not been told by mulitple medical professionals, his brother and finally Geoff that John needed the machines right now, he'd have disconnected every single one of them and shoved them out of the private room that John lay in.

Dimmock had promised retribution against those that had brought about John's demise as a Mage; confirming their fears that John had burned his magic out completely. Sherlock had no faith in the practitioners left in London and their ability to police themselves. The man that had tried to police them was a shell of his former self, having burned through more than his Magic in an effort to set things right once more.

Geoff had stayed long enough to see John and Sherlock settled into the room and then had gone home, promising a swift return. Sherlock understood why the DI was gone and was thankful for it in a way. It meant that he had time with John to himself for a while. He'd learned not to resent sharing John with Lestrade – with Geoff. Geoff was Good and John liked him – Sherlock liked making John happy, so that meant sharing him with Geoff from time to time.

Once he was sure that they wouldn't be interrupted, Sherlock gathered a thin hand in his own and sunk his spare hand in John's blond hair, running his fingers over his partners scalp gently. He leaned down to place his lips beside John's ear, kissing the cold flesh first.

"I don't care what you are now, John as long as you remember this. You are mine and I do not give you permission to go." Sherlock breathed.

It was a statement that he would repeat thousands of times more in the days to come.

%&%&%

Days after…

Geoff had taken to bringing food to Sherlock in an effort to keep the man from collapsing from sheer exhaustion. The only good thing about the room that John was in was that there was an ensuite. Sherlock had been surprised and then grateful that Geoff simply brought changes of clothes and toiletries with him so Sherlock could freshen up properly. John wouldn't like it if Sherlock neglected himself and Geoff was canny enough to know that the thin pest would throw the mother of all tantrums – and Geoff from the room – if he tried to get Sherlock to return to Baker Street for even a short amount of time.

Not that Geoff needed to be a deducing genius to figure that out. He'd seen Sherlock do it to Molly, some thin woman that texted constantly and an older bloke that looked a little like Sherlock in a vaguely disturbing way. Mrs Hudson had agreed to keep track of laundry and other such things and usually had something home made for Sherlock to eat whenever Geoff stopped by for more shirts and socks. She'd offered to come to the hospital but Sherlock had sent explicit instructions via text to stay away until he summoned her. Claire had made noises about coming to visit too, but Geoff had put her off for now; better to wait until John was awake and looking more like himself.

Sherlock was in the shower when Dimmock knocked on the door. Geoff crossed the room so quickly an onlooker would have thought he'd teleported and pushed Dimmock back with a hand, forcing him back across the threshold.

The DS was so startled he didn't even resist and Geoff scowled fiercely, folding his arms and blocking the doorway with his bulkier frame. Behind him the shower turned off. Sherlock would be out in two minutes exactly – Geoff had timed him – so the DI said nothing. Better not to cause Sherlock to scandalise the staff by appearing naked to berate Dimmock or cause the thin man to brain himself in the bathroom as he hurried to John's defence.

"What is he doing here?" Sherlock hissed, sounding something like an enraged cat. He ended up pressed so close to Geoff that he was almost draped over him like an awkward blanket, positively radiating hostility at the practitioner before them.

"I… I came to tell John…" Dimmock started but never got a chance to finish.

"He's still unconscious," Geoff interrupted, not bothering to disguise the bitterness in his voice, "And we're not letting you anywhere near him, conscious or not. So either you tell us and we'll pass it on, or leave."

Sherlock nodded vigorously in agreement and Dimmock deflated a little.

"Alright," the other man said in quiet defeat, "The Mages who live in Britain have completed the trials of the practitioners who messed with the ley lines. Those who directly cast magic against them and John have been subjected to summary judgement…"

John had performed summary judgement on those two teenagers who'd tried to summon a water demon all those years ago; stripping them of their ability to perform magic as he bound the demon back in its watery prison. It had been Geoff's first case that had actually held real magic and John at the same time.

"Good," Geoff muttered, "With John down for the count, we don't need to be worrying that they'll turn up here looking for round two."

Not that they'd have gotten in. He hadn't just pushed Dimmock out of the room because Sherlock would slaughter him if he came near John. He and Sherlock had pretty good memories and an eye for details. They'd drawn up several protective runes over the door lintel and they'd started glowing when Dimmock tried to cross them. The runes were a sympathetic magic – they'd used blood from each other and a few drops from John in the mix of ink – which wasn't strong enough to actually repel someone serious about getting into the room, but would certainly slow them down long enough for Sherlock or Geoff to shoot them with John's gun.

"What about those that supported them – that gave them knowledge or help?" Sherlock's voice butted into Geoff's musings. Dimmock looked uncomfortable, which meant he and his missus hadn't gotten off scott-free.

"We're on a kind of… probation," Dimmock replied, "We're being watched very closely now and probably will be for the rest of our lives. Those of thus that held positions of trust in our society have been stripped of them."

Geoff wasn't so petty as to gloat over that, and neither was Sherlock when Geoff stood on his foot.

%&%&%

Weeks after…

Sherlock looks up as John stirs from his place on the couch and puts his pipette down carefully, trotting out to sit on the coffee table and rest one gentle hand lightly on John's chest. He's not sure if it's the complete loss of his magic or some other thing that has John tending towards panic when he wakes alone, but either way if he wants John to remain calm and coherent he needs to be in contact with his partner when he wakes.

"Mmph," John mutters and reaches up a hand to brush over Sherlock's before moving it and sitting up. He's lost too much weight again – one of the cretins in the hospital had the nerve to try and get him admitted into a special program for people with eating disorders – and he's yet to regain any colour. It's the tail end of winter though, and Sherlock plans that as soon as the sun starts to make regular appearances without being accompanied by a shocking amount of cold that he'll take John out into it.

He loves John no matter what he looks like, but he prefers it when John is healthy and looks healthy.

John brushes a kiss on Sherlock's cheek and gets up. Sherlock watches as the thin doctor makes his way to the bathroom and contains a sigh. John is not to be sighed over or pitied. John is John and nothing can change that – magic or no.

The front door opens and Sherlock listens to the footsteps below. Lestrade, with dinner and the family. John had been home for only three days before Claire Lestrade had 'popped in' to see him. The Lestrade children also seemed fond of John and now it was a common practice for them to share one meal a week with the DI's family. Pet has been known to make an appearance at these dinners as well, brushing against Sherlock in greeting and farewell. Sherlock isn't sure if John has 'spoken' with Pet since the Blessing; he doesn't want to upset his partner by asking.

Lestrade had of course proven that he was more than capable of being professional on the job – Sherlock had taken a case for him only last week and not once had the other man's demeanour been anything other than its exasperated usual. John had been left in Mrs Hudson's excellent care for the two hours that Sherlock was absent from the flat.

"Good evening," Sherlock stood as Mrs Lestrade entered the room, mindful of his manners. He allowed her to kiss his cheek and take his hand, offering a perfunctory smile before bundling up John's blanket. Lestrade was in the kitchen, fishing out plates and glasses and cutlery, almost as familiar with the house as the tenants were.

"Stay out of the fridge!" Sherlock warned, not wanting to deal with traumatised children at dinner time. There were a few … questionable items in there that the Lestrade's would no doubt prefer their children not to see. Lestrade has bought libations suitable to the children and to adults and pours them out, sending the children to distribute cutlery and drinks as required.

John braves the fridge, clapping Lestrade on the shoulder and carrying Claire and Sherlock's food out to them, kissing Claire on the cheek and sitting down when ordered. There are enough seats for the adults, the children sit on the floor, and Sherlock turns the telly on, putting it at a low volume but allowing the children to be entertained while the adults discuss work and mutual interests.

Well, Claire, Lestrade and John do. Sherlock is not so domesticated that he'll sit through small talk.

%&%&%

Months after …

John paused by the side of the path, breathing heavily, and fished in the pocket of his track pants. His phone buzzed indignantly again as he fished and he sighed. The phone seemed to be extra indignant when Sherlock texted him, as if channelling his partners personality.

Either that or Sherlock had found a way to make it vibrate with extra verve when he texted.

John stepped further off the path, not wanting to get knocked into by a fellow runner and looked at the screen.

Case – SH

Come to 221B at once – SH

As John watched another text came in, this one making him smile.

Are you free? We've got something for his nibs to look at and I think it would go better if you were home. Geoff.

John replied to them both and tucked the phone away again. Sherlock had taken many cases during John's convalescence, though mainly ones that could be solved from the comfort of Baker Street. John was under no illusions that the sleuth's reluctance to leave their home was due to the rating system. John had been very unsettled in the wake of his last spell and Sherlock had been bound and determined to prove to the doctor that as far as the genius was concerned, nothing had changed.

John loved that about Sherlock.

He loped through the park, taking the paths that would bring him more quickly to the exit at the end of Baker Street. He'd been running to improve his stamina and fitness for the last two months – increasing the distance and speed as time went by and gaining much needed colour in his cheeks. He was almost back to the fitness level he'd been in boot camp, which was a matter of pride.

Geoff's car was parked outside the flat, with Geoff leaning on the side of it, clearly waiting for John to arrive. He grinned as John jogged to an easy halt, opening the back door and pulling out a box.

"I see what you did there," John laughed, "Not so much, come and help me with Sherlock John, as come and help me carry things!"

"He'd kill me," Geoff snorted, "I have no intention of leaving Claire to raise my children alone, thank you very much Dr Watson. I didn't think it was kind to tease him with the box while he waited for you."

"Very wise," John opened the street door and held it for Geoff, knowing the DI would walk on up without any further invite from him. He trotted lightly up the stairs, listening as Sherlock berated Lestrade for waiting downstairs. Sherlock, of course, would never lower himself to actually going downstairs and getting the files himself.

The case was a murder, but Geoff said there was something 'off' and he wanted Sherlock's opinion. The crime scene reports all described a common or garden case of robbery gone wrong – the criminal in question had been surprised by the homeowner returning early from work and had hit her over the head with a paperweight. So far so obvious, as Sherlock said.

"Yeah, even I can manage that part of it," Lestrade shifted uneasily, "But I'm telling you Sherlock, something is not quite right…"

They fished out the crime scene photos and started flipping through them. John went and made tea for the three of them while Sherlock flipped back and forth between several shots of the body from different angles.

"There's a few more in here – we'd only just got them sent through. I printed them off and brought them along, but I haven't looked yet," Lestrade muttered as John put his tea on the table, "Thanks, John."

"Welcome," John nodded, and Sherlock shot him a glance, which was as effusive as the sleuth got when in the middle of dissecting a crime scene by photo. John perched on the arm of the couch closest to his partner and looked over the thin shoulder as Lestrade pulled the newest photos out and spread them on the table. Sherlock froze and Geoff choked the reason for the DI's unease immediately apparent.

"That's a rune," Geoff muttered, "Bloody hell; I didn't look into the space under the desk…"

"It's a power gathering rune," John sighed, and rolled his eyes at Sherlock's look of surprise, "I haven't lost my ability to read, Sherlock. The power gathering could be the reason for the death, which has been disguised as a break in gone wrong. I'm sorry, Geoff, I'd feel better if neither you nor Sherlock had anything to do with the case."

"You're not saying to give it to Dimmock!" Geoff protested.

"You'll raise his profile in the community again! John, surely we can…" Sherlock added his protest and John got up, frowning at them both and stuffing things back into the box.

"No, I'm not saying to give it to Dimmock," John answered Geoff firmly, "And no, Sherlock, we can't solve this one. It was different when I could protect you both actively. The final protections I put on you two will still be there – the Blessing has ensured that, and it will last the rest of your lives, as will the protections I put on Geoff's home and the flat. But I can't protect you against a practitioner that thinks nothing of murder to raise power, and I won't argue on it."

"If not Dimmock, then who?" Geoff spoke before Sherlock could get worked up.

"DI Patterson," John replied, "He transferred in a couple of months ago and made a point of introducing himself during one of my morning runs. He's relocated to London to take over the duties of Mage and to police the community. There are a large number of people who have been shamed and discredited at the moment in the area and he wanted to let me know he was keeping on top of things. Apparently, that was one of the decisions that the Mage council came to after the ley line tribunal was held. All you have to do is show him the rune and he'll come up with a reason to take over the case, Geoff."

"Alright, then," Geoff nodded, closing the lid on the now full box and draining his tea, "I'll go see him now."

John nodded peacefully and left the other two men to say their goodbyes, heading to the bathroom for a shower.

Later that night, Sherlock prodded John in the side and propped his pointy chin on John's breastbone.

"You don't mind?" the curly haired man asked, his tone uncertain. John didn't have to ask what he was talking about – Sherlock had been pensive ever since Geoff left earlier this afternoon. Even their lovemaking this evening had been affected by his mood.

"No, Sherlock, I don't mind. I don't want to go up against a practitioner unarmed," John sighed, "Do you mind? That I effectively took the case from you and handed it to someone else?"

"No," Sherlock frowned, "Although I don't like this Patterson coming near you without permission."

John grinned and tugged on curly hair. Sherlock rolled to the side and went to sleep – it was like the bloke had an off switch sometimes, though never one that acted in your favour – and John sighed into the darkened room.

%&%&%

Years after…

"Bollocks," Geoff aired his opinion firmly and Sherlock sighed. Not too deeply though, as they were pressed together quite tightly in the small space.

"Agreed," John's tone was resigned, "But it could be worse."

"How, precisely could it be worse? We're stuck in a tunnel with possibly no way out, no light, poor ventilation and no way to call for help. It's a dead spot for mobiles, remember?" Geoff snarked. Pet huffed in the darkness, but Sherlock assumed that the supernatural being wouldn't be able to lead them out of here – it was quite old for a Pet, according to John and Geoff had once mentioned some months ago that it was spending less and less time with him.

"We could be out there with a bunch of armed thugs who wouldn't think twice about killing us and burying our bodies in quick lime," John replied quite logically. Sherlock grunted in agreement and patted cautiously at the walls around them. The space was indeed a tunnel, built to allow electricians and other workers access to the fixings of the building while the tenants went on with daily life undisturbed.

If they hadn't been trapped in one under possibly murderous circumstances, Sherlock would have been fascinated. As it was, he'd prefer it if they knew which way was out.

He'd also quite like to see where he was going and what he was touching. Unfortunately the one object he had that could have cast some light had a flat battery.

"We need light," he muttered, "John, is your phone charged?"

"Yes," John replied, "But I have a better idea. Stay still a moment, you two."

"Uh, I wouldn't light any matches in here mate, there are gas pipes…" Geoff started but John muttered something that Sherlock didn't quite catch and there was light.

A blue white ball of it rested on the palm of John hand, which he tossed into the air after a moment to float just above their heads.

"Whsfsk," Sherlock may or may not have said in utter shock, staring at his partner. Geoff also seemed rather surprised by John's actions and the smaller man shrugged a little sheepishly, tucking his hands into his trouser pockets somewhat like a school boy caught out of bounds.

"It's coming back," John said after a moment and Sherlock scoffed.

"Obviously."

"Think of it like… roses," John glared at his partner, "As long as you don't destroy the roots it will grow back after a hard pruning. Everyone assumed I'd burnt through all of my magic. I hadn't – the roots of it were still intact."

"And you didn't say anything because you don't want another fiasco like the last one on your hands," Geoff nodded, "I don't blame you, really. If it were me, I wouldn't want to give anyone a chance to resurrect that prophecy."

Sherlock hadn't quite thought of it like that, but he could see from John's expression that Geoff had hit on the correct answer.

"This way," the sleuth said and turned his back on the other two, reaching back to take John's hand; pleased when his partner took it and squeezed gently. For a moment Sherlock had thought that John was hiding magic from him again, excluding him from that part of his life.

He should have known better, of course. John was better than that.

That didn't mean he wouldn't interrogate John to within an inch of his life to get every last detail out of him once this case was finished.

END

AN – that's all folks!