This is the third and last story covering Sherlock's return. Dedicated to MapleleafCameo...because she said 'do it!'

Feeling like he'd been run over by a steamroller, Greg slowly made his way out of the church and into the early morning chill, thinking to try to find a cab to take the distressed man home.

Sitting at the kerb outside the well-kept grounds was a familiar sleek black car, and as he approached the rear door opened and the elder Holmes brother stepped out.

"Do you have him safe?"

Greg nodded, no longer even slightly surprised at the other man's apparent omniscience.

"Sherlock's with him." He looked down at the floor, then up at the sky, gathering his thoughts. "I saw things last night and again this morning that I still don't quite believe."

"John Watson is quite a remarkable being." Mycroft said softly, only to be surprised by a quiet chuckling from his companion.

"So is your brother, Mycroft. I've just watched him persuade an angel that he has nothing to feel guilty about."

Mycroft's eyebrows rose in disbelief, however he refrained from commenting, as at that moment the young man in question walked out of the grey stone building, gently supporting and guiding his now clothed friend.

As their steps brought them closer to the car, John paused and looked back almost longingly at the church. He had felt safe there.

With infinite care and patience, Sherlock waited, and when John turned away once more he guided him into the back of the waiting vehicle, climbing in beside him, settling back against the well upholstered seat as the smaller man curled towards him and rested his head on his shoulder.

The four men travelled in silence back to Baker Street, Greg readily resuming his role of tea-maker while Mycroft sat in John's chair, staring meditatively into the fireplace.

Sherlock led John through to the bedroom, helping him to undress, and as he lay down on the bed tenderly pulling the covers over him. A gentle tapping took him away from the bedside, and he opened the door to see Greg standing there with a mug of tea in his hand.

"Thought John might appreciate this." He said a little awkwardly.

"Thanks Greg" John's voice was hardly more than a whisper. Sherlock took the mug, and closed the door, shutting the other man out

When Sherlock finally joined them, Greg and Mycroft were sitting in silence, each occupying an armchair like a pair of bookends.

"He's sleeping."

It was as if his entrance into the room had lifted a spell, and suddenly the two men were reanimated.

"What happened here last night, Sherlock?"

"I don't know." Sherlock met his brother's questioning gaze. "I can't ask him, not yet anyway. He'll tell me when he's ready."

"Is he safe now?"

With a shrug the young man sat on the edge of the couch, his eyes returning to the door down the hall.

"Why don't you go to him," Greg said, crossing to stand beside him and laying a gentle hand on his shoulder. "I'll sleep here, in case you need me."

Mycroft rose also.

"If you need me brother, call me – anytime." And with that he let himself quietly out of the flat.

Greg pushed Sherlock towards the bedroom, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and making himself comfortable.

In their room, Sherlock stripped off and climbed in beside John, wrapping himself around the other man, oblivious to the muck and dirt that still clung to his chilled skin; they could take care of that later, for now they both needed rest.

O*O*O

Looking slightly rumpled, and more than a little disorientated, Greg Lestrade sat on the couch in the warmth of the mid-day sun, drinking strong black coffee and wondering if Sherlock and John's lives had been this full-on and hectic while they had been abroad. With a start he realised he was being watched, and he looked up to see Sherlock standing in the doorway.

"How's John?"

"Still asleep. Whatever it was that happened to him last night has left him exhausted."

"The darkness?"

Sherlock nodded, padding barefoot across the carpet and slumping into his chair.

When it became obvious he wasn't going to comment further, Greg dragged himself to his feet and went to make them both coffee. He had almost finished when he caught the sound of footsteps running up the stairs, followed by hammering on the door. Moving swiftly he intercepted Sherlock, motioning him to sit back down – Greg knew who this would be, he had anticipated this visit ever since he'd called in the backup team the night before.

Sally Donovan pushed into the flat as the door was opened, only to be pulled up short by the sight of her boss standing in front of her dressed in off-duty jeans and sweatshirt that looked as if he's slept in them.

"What are you doing here?" Donovan asked, staring over Greg's shoulder at the resurrected detective.

"Do you mean me or him?" Greg asked drily.

"Well let's start with him, Sir." Sally's voice dripped acid as she sneered in Sherlock's direction.

"He was…"

"I was abroad doing some covert work for my brother. I needed a cover that wouldn't be questioned." Sherlock remained seated, staring over his steepled fingers at the Detective Sergeant. "Next question?"

"And the DI's here because…?"

"I'm here because Sherlock and John are my friends."

"Yeah, where is your shadow, freak?"

"If you can't see him here, then I imagine he's in bed sleeping." Mrs Hudson walked in behind Donovan and quietly closed the door behind her. "Last night was upsetting for him, a man died because John was trying to protect his friends, and it brought back bad memories of Afghanistan."

Sherlock smiled, and rose to stand next to his landlady as she walked into the living room.

"Why are you here, Sergeant Donovan? Because I warn you, if you're just here to bait my tenants I will be making a formal complaint."

Standing with her hands on her hips, glaring up at the young woman, Mrs Hudson looked positively ferocious, and Sally suddenly looked less certain of herself. She looked to Lestrade for support but found nothing in his demeanour that was encouraging.

"Sally, you have paperwork to complete for last night's work." The DI said, taking pity on the plight of his subordinate. "Leave John and Sherlock's statements to me."

Sally frowned.

"We've had a request to pass any paperwork to MI6, they are taking over the case."

"I know, so the sooner you tie it all up, the sooner we can get shot of it. I'll be back in the office tomorrow – until then you can reach me here if you need to."

Indecision held Sally where she stood, until Sherlock stepped around her and opened the door, staring pointedly at her until she reluctantly left the flat.

Closing the door, Sherlock returned to his place beside his landlady.

"Thank you Mrs, Hudson."

"Well, it's just as well you'd warned me that this work you'd been doing had upset John, brought back his nightmares." She walked through to the kitchen, to finish making the coffee that Greg had started, missing the look that passed between the two men in the living room. "When he wakes up, let me know, I'll cook up something special for his lunch."

Mrs Hudson spent a little longer in the flat, fussing over the two detectives, then returned to her own domain, reminding them to let her know when John was ready to eat.

Over her soft footsteps disappearing down the stairs, another sound invaded the flat – the sound of the shower running.

Putting aside his coffee, Sherlock slipped along the hallway and into the bathroom. John stood, eyes closed, facing into the warm water spray, his hands hanging loosely at his sides. The dirt and grime from his earlier escapade was running down his body like muddy rivers, pooling at his feet momentarily before disappearing with the waste water.

Slipping out of his pyjamas and robe Sherlock stepped in behind him, silently grasping John's shampoo and massaging it through the short blond hair.

Taking his time then, he gently worked his way down John's body, cleaning his skin with soothing strokes, turning him this way and that to ensure all physical trace of the last 24 hours was gone.

Throughout these ministrations John's eyes remained closed, opening only when Sherlock hurriedly scrubbed himself clean and turned off the water.

Not a word was spoken as, wrapped in towels, they returned to the bedroom and got dressed. Sherlock watched John to see if he displayed any signs of the pain that had driven him from their home, and John just watched Sherlock, his face wiped clean of expression, his thoughts unreadable.

Then, when Sherlock turned to open the bedroom door he was stopped by a hand on his arm. He looked back, and felt that hand slide up to cup his cheek and pull him down for a softly chaste kiss.

"Thank you."

O*O*O

Despite his assertion that he really wasn't hungry, John managed to eat most of the pasta dish that Mrs Hudson provided for the three men. Sitting around the dinner table John tried to explain what had happened.

"The darkness, yes that's a good name for it." John stared down at the remains of his food. "I've no idea how it manifests itself, but obviously you've seen it…"

"Well, we saw something." Greg huffed a slight, mirthless laugh. "We saw what looked like a whole world of darkness flying up the stairs."

"And it wrapped itself around Moran, as if it was squeezing the life out of him." Sherlock added quietly.

"Yeah," John nodded, "When I realised he'd outmanoeuvred us I was terrified, I thought I'd lose you just when we should have been safe."

"So, this darkness – it was…what exactly?"

"A manifestation, Greg. Fear and anger in physical form. It's never happened to me before, but I know it can be dangerous, and it was so much worse for being uncontrolled – one minute I was in the empty house, next I was standing over Moran's dead body." A shudder ran through the blond doctor, prompting his lover to draw the conversation to a close.

"That's all you need to know Greg." Grey eyes met hazel, warning against further questioning.

"Sherlock…"

"No John, he's right. Probably the less I know the better I'll sleep at nights."

This comment raised a smile from his companions, and with a distinct lightening of the mood in the room, John rose and started clearing the table, switching on the kettle as he went, and putting mugs out for tea.

For the remainder of the afternoon and well into the evening, the three friends discussed how best to handle the 'Return of Sherlock Holmes', with suggestions ranging from allowing Mycroft's PR gurus to handle the media circus, to holding court on The Graham Norton Show and claiming to have been abducted by aliens – the latter reducing the three friends to helpless giggles as they envisaged the resulting uproar.

And later, as Greg prepared to return home John held out his hand, thanking the older man for his help. As they shook hands Greg had a thought, and he looked down at the ex-army doctor with a calculating smile.

"If you really want to thank me," he said "can you give me some advance warning next time you want to turn Anderson into a pig? I want to see all the fun from your point of view."

"No problem." John grinned in response as he held the door for his friend.

O*O*O

John lay in the newly made bed, watching as his lover removed his clothes, the tip of his tongue just peeping out from between slightly parted lips.

"If you keep looking at me like that John, I won't be responsible for the effect it has on me!" Sherlock grinned, removing his boxers and revealing the beginnings of an erection, an erection that grew as John licked at his lips and stared wantonly. Sherlock growled and crawled up beside him, dipping his head to grasp with his teeth the sheet that lay loosely across John's hips, dragging it to one side before placing little wet kisses around John's navel.

With a groan John reached for the other man, pulling him up until he lay between John's thighs.

"John"

"Shhh 'Lock, don't talk, don't think. I want you to feel – I want to feel, just for now, just to prove it's finally over."

Sherlock silenced him with a kiss, nudging forwards with his hips, feeling the subtle shift underneath him as John guided him in, moving with him, cupping his buttocks and pulling him deeper.

Emotions that had been so close to the surface drove them together and brought them swiftly to simultaneous orgasm, leaving them clinging together in the aftermath, shaking and spent.

Wrapped around each other, they lay in the darkness, sleepy but not yet ready for sleep.

"I wasn't prepared for the pain. I thought I could find some relief in the church."

Sherlock placed a small kiss against the scarred flesh of John's shoulder, nuzzling him, encouraging his confidences. John smiled and dropped a kiss amongst the soft dark curls.

"I felt safe there, but the pain got worse until I couldn't say for sure which hurt the most, the pain of killing, or the pain of leaving my heart behind."