Archive of Our Own ^beta

The door to his flat is open.

A thin shutter of light spills from the crack onto his feet. Lestrade watches the quality of it on the timber. He nudges the door open with his foot and shuts it quietly, and scans the sitting room.

"Hello," says the man on his sofa.

Lestrade inhales sharply. Then he swings.

"Oof!" - the man is no longer on the sofa.

Lestrade is torn between putting his face in his hands and throwing another punch. He rubs his sore knuckles and says, "Good roll. For a dead man."

Then, because it’s hardly enough, Lestrade adds loudly, "You idiot."

Sherlock tests his face and winces. He clambers to his feet unsteadily. "Lestrade, nice to see you too. You've lost weight."

"Getting accused of being a criminal accomplice will do that for you," says Lestrade, suddenly angry. He tries not to be offended by Sherlock's terrible appreciation of social civilities – he’s even willing to forgive the man’s deletion of his first name - but this, this is too much. Lestrade shakes his head. He's got a right to say whatever he likes.

Sherlock blinks slowly, cataloguing and deducing. "They fired you. I didn't expect that. I'm sorry."

Lestrade doesn't know what to say to a resurrected Holmes, let alone a sorry one. His anger drains away as quickly as it came. It leaves him tired and absurdly relieved, and he slumps against the wall for support.

"You're alive. I thought you were dead."

"I am," affirms Sherlock. “Please don’t punch me again.”

Lestrade smiles wryly. "Why would I? You're alive and I'm a criminal accomplice. All is fine with the world. You know, I've got to go to court next week."

"Mycroft-"

"-kidnapped me once, during the investigation. I told him to bugger off. Impolitely."

Sherlock smiles at that. "I could call him."

Lestrade laughs at the absurdity, but it comes out tired and wrong. "I'd rather take prison, but thanks. He knows you're alive?"

"He does," says Sherlock, expression suddenly serious. "But you are not going to trial next week. Moriarty has connections in the judiciary and I will not see you waste the rest of your life in a glorified box."

Lestrade's jaw is dangerously slack, so he shuts it. The night is surreal. Sherlock hasn't been in his flat since he was hollow eyed and his cheekbones cut sharper than his words. Lestrade has no idea what possessed him to come back now.

For a while he almost says I didn’t think you cared, just to see the expression on Sherlock's face, but the words stop heavy on the tip of his tongue. He's not yet so bitter that he would lie to Sherlock about this.

Lestrade says, "You-"

A sudden, familiar shriek cuts him off, and he blinks.

"I... That's... You were in my kitchen," he says unnecessarily. "Why were you in my kitchen?"

"Excellent," says Sherlock, climbing back onto the sofa. "Kettle's just boiled. Make us some tea, would you?"

Lestrade walks to the kitchen and makes tea. He wants to punch Sherlock again, even though his knuckles are still smarting. Instead, he tips the kettle and let the water flow. The anticipation of tea stops him from punching Sherlock.

Is this how John feels all the time, he wonders. Wait. John.

"He doesn't know."

Lestrade's grip slips. The stream of liquid jerks and splashes on his shirt. He hisses and says, "I didn't- Have you seen the w- You- John isn't- Don't you even-"

He stops, furiously mopping his shirt with tissue.

Since he cannot finish any of his sentences, he makes more tea. It is an excellent coping mechanism. There are three cups, from before the divorce. He gives Sherlock his daughter's cup. It has 'PRINCESS' written on it.

Sherlock’s eyes flicker but he accepts the cup graciously. The steam curls tenderly around his face.

Sherlock says, "When John makes tea, he stirs it between seven to nine times clockwise, punctuating it with two anti-clockwise strokes on his fifth stirring. He holds the kettle at a sixty-degree angle five centimetres from the lip of the cup for three seconds."

He pauses, and continues quietly, "He made two cups yesterday. He realised his mistake in eight seconds. He drank neither."

Lestrade swallows. The thought of John is unbearable. The thought of Sherlock, watching while John mourned, even more so. He doesn’t know what to say to either man, now halves of a whole.

He asks, "Why are you here?"

Why here? Why now? Why me?

"I can't go back," answers Sherlock simply. "And neither can you."

Lestrade exhales and drinks his tea. He finishes it in silence, sets down his cup and waits. On the sofa, Sherlock sits like a king without a crown.

"Come with me?" asks Sherlock, and Lestrade smiles, unfolding, alive for the first time in weeks.

"You know," gasps Lestrade, "If I had known being a fugitive would involve so much running, I would have stayed in prison."

"You never went to prison," retorts Sherlock, as they vault a fence into an alley. "Left!"

Lestrade obligingly throws himself over two cars. Behind him, a rose bush explodes into flame. He rounds two corners on Sherlock's lead, almost trips as they duck into shadow. "No, but I've thrown people into cells. What the hell, they have a flame-thrower!"

Sherlock throws him a glance. "Yes, I vividly recall. Catch your breath."

Lestrade tries valiantly to pant in quiet. They wait as the shouts and footsteps and fiery columns draw near and fade down the wrong corridor.

"Sher-" begins Lestrade, but he is silenced by a sharp look. "Sigerson," he amends, "you have to stop doing this. I have to stop doing this."

"Doing what?" asks Sherlock softly, scanning the alley.

Lestrade does not look at him. "Running. Jumping. Getting outnumbered and chased by a bunch of idiots with lethal equipment. We could get hurt."

"Okay."

"What, really?" he asks, amazed. Sherlock's glance is cutting.

"Fine,” says Lestrade, “Okay, really. I'm bringing this conversation up the next time you want to waltz in the middle of another gang."

Sherlock ignores him. "Time to go," he says.

"Already?" asks Lestrade, and sees tell-tale, fiery orange reflected in the alley walls. Lestrade lets out a disbelieving huff. His life is crazy. He could get used to it.

But all the time: "John, hurry up!"

"Greg," corrects Lestrade, and Sherlock's bright eyes shutter, refocusing on Lestrade -- and he is suddenly, crushingly sad.

"What did you do?"

Sherlock's question comes on route to Singapore. Lestrade is a collapsing mess on two hours of sleep, but the plane is turbulent and irrational and has provided travel magazines. He thumbs page twelve -- why can't they ever go to sensible places, with beaches? -- and says, "What?"

"What did you do?" repeats Sherlock. "They wouldn't have fired you if you hadn't done something to drastically alter their opinion of you."

"Hah!" says Lestrade, throwing the two-page spread shut with a clap. "Bit late, isn't it, this conversation?"

Still, Lestrade is too tired to be properly angry, so he sighs irritatedly instead. "I punched the chief superintendent. And possibly the British government."

Sherlock's smile is blinding.

"Yeah, well," says Lestrade gruffly, stuffing the magazine back in its holder. "Goodnight."

Miraculously, despite the turbulence, Lestrade does fall asleep. He dreams of a glorious whirlpool of tea. John is stirring it clockwise, and he is drowning.

"John, phone."

"Greg," he says, watching as Sherlock stills at the microscope. Lestrade swallows and says, "Where is it?"

"Never mind," says Sherlock, and reaches into his jacket pocket.

"A casino?"

"Yes. Here," says Sherlock, and hands him a wad of orange notes. "Try not to lose all of it. Look for an Indian man uncomfortable in a suit, left handed. I'm going to make some money."

"You what?" asks Lestrade incredulously. He counts the notes and nearly chokes. "Two thousand dollars?"

"As I said, try not to lose all of it. I'm not letting Mycroft set my allowance. Text me," dismisses Sherlock, and enters the fray.

Lestrade shakes his head on principle, but sets off anyway.

"You look sad," says Lestrade.

Sherlock turns around. "I've had this conversation before. I do look sad, don't I? When John's not around. But you look sad too. Why would you look sad?"

"Oh, Sherlock," he says thickly. "Why do you think?"

Two hours later, Lestrade has lost one thousand and three hundred dollars. He is on his ninth round of roulette and is about to lose a hundred more when the Indian shows up. He texts Sherlock, who appears within seconds.

Sherlock looks at Lestrade's remaining chips and produces an eloquent expression that conveys superiority and an extreme lack of surprise.

"To your left," says Lestrade, ignoring the non-verbal insinuations of his stupidity. "That him?"

Sherlock nods, cataloguing each detail. "Yes, you can tell by the socks. Keep an eye on him. I'll go cash in. Find me once you've lost the rest of your chips."

"The socks? I'm not going to lose all my chips."

"They're green," calls Sherlock, grinning as he leaves. "Don't worry about the money. I made more than enough to cover your losses."

Lestrade stares, and then bets five hundred on twenty-nine.

“This is for John,” says Lestrade wonderingly. “This is all for John.”

Sherlock – dirty and weary and wonderfully unselfish – glances up puzzled. “Of course,” he says, like there was never any other reason at all.

"What part of 'no more running into gangs and getting chased by idiots with deadly things' did you not understand?" cries Lestrade, as he runs into the noisiest shop on the street. It is distressingly full of birds and cages.

"Oh, be quiet," says Sherlock amicably. "I did give you three countries' rest."

Lestrade puts his head in his hands and groans. “We are going to die. I am going to die surrounded by feathery mammals.”

“Aves,” corrects Sherlock, as he casually destroys a poor shopkeeper’s livelihood. “Open the cages, won’t you?”

“I shouldn’t be here,” says Lestrade, and is surprised by the alarm in Sherlock’s expression.

“Are you leaving?” asks Sherlock. Lestrade hears what he really means (don't leave me), and he could almost laugh at the cruelty of a world where Sherlock is broken and Lestrade is left to hold him together.

Then again, it’s not the first time.

“Drugs,” says Sherlock quietly.

The warehouse is dark and filled with dozens and dozens of crates. Lestrade lets out a low sound of disbelief. “I thought there was a death penalty for that here?”

“Yes,” says Sherlock, “Which means this branch is either extremely dedicated or extremely powerful.”

Sherlock’s fingers twitch. Lestrade thinks of white packets inside crates and of track marks beneath long sleeves, and says helplessly, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock throws him a sharp look, clenching his fist. “What?”

Lestrade hesitates, then shakes his head. “Nothing. Are we doing that anonymous phone call thing again?”

Sherlock says, “Can’t. This time the corruption goes way up. We need to get to the source.”

“I could–”

“Pointless. You’ll never catch him, but I know a man who can,” says Sherlock. If his smile is a little strained, Lestrade doesn’t mention it.

“I can’t do this anymore,” says Lestrade, because in everything he does it should be John. It should be John reminding Sherlock to eat. It should be John pulling Sherlock out of a bullet's path. It should be John telling Sherlock off for putting body parts in the hotel mini-fridge and it should be John helping Sherlock acquire the body parts in the first place.

"Please,” Sherlock says, and there is nothing left to say.

"Generally, the point of being a fugitive is to not be found," Sherlock says, as Lestrade discards an aerosol spray.

But it has been six months since Lestrade left London, and the both of them are more tired and guilt-ridden than they show. Lestrade needs to keep himself sane. He says, "It depends who finds you."

Sherlock doesn't reply. Lestrade chalks it up as a victory and lets himself hope.

Behind them, paint running down the eyes of a painting in France, a blindfold stains the canvas bright yellow.

“Why me?” asks Lestrade, and knows Sherlock hears his question - why not John?

Sherlock is silent. He says, “John sees the best in me. There are things that I have to do now that are– things that I don’t want him to see. I’ve disappointed John before, because he didn’t agree with my limits.”

Sherlock smiles crookedly. “Except you already know I’m a disgusting man, so I don’t have to worry about that.”

Laos is stifling and wet. The thunderstorm drenches the paperwork on the man’s desk; it drowns out the sound of Lestrade locking the door.

Sherlock has the gun. The man is left handed and shivering on his floor and Lestrade swallows.

“Lestrade,” says Sherlock steadily, barely audible over the howling wind. “Don’t look.”

There is a word for what Sherlock does, but it is not a pretty one, and Lestrade faces the door and pretends he cannot hear the Sherlock tear the man ruthlessly apart, vicious and precise.

“Moran!” the man shrieks, sobbing, “Moran, Colonel Moran, please–”

“Thank you,” he hears Sherlock say, and there is a clap of thunder, loud and piercing, like a gunshot. It echoes dully, wrapped in rain.

When Lestrade turns back around, the gun is in the man’s right hand, and Sherlock’s eyes are hollow.

"Time to go," murmurs Sherlock, and Lestrade doesn't look back.

“You’ll be fine,” says Lestrade. “We’ll get it done and then we can go home and you’ll be fine.”

Sherlock closes his eyes. “It’s all fine,” he echoes, and tries to believe.

What are you doing? - MH

Sherlock laughs and pockets his phone. Lestrade, driving, raises an eyebrow questioningly. “My brother wants to know why half of the bodies we leave behind have a yellow blindfold spray-painted onto them,” he explains. “It’s surprising he took this long, we’re even on the internet.”

“We are?”

“Yes. As ‘Masaccio’, according to the tradition of naming teenage mutant ninja turtles after Renaissance artists.”

“Teenage what?”

Sherlock grimaces. “Teenage mutant ninja turtles; it used to be a popular show on the telly. It’s the yellow streak across the eyes – it reminds them of the eye mask.”

“I didn’t know you watched telly,” says Lestrade. “Do I turn left now, or –?”

“Not yet,” says Sherlock, frowning at the screen of his phone. “Although I’m not sure how trustworthy the GPS is in this part of the world. I don't usually, unless John is. I just know how to research. At any rate, any pseudonym at all is preferable to more bodies publicly connected to my name.”

Lestrade nods. “Right. So are we lost?”

“Of course not,” scowls Sherlock, jabbing fiercely at his phone. “If there’s signal, there is GPS. We are fine.”

Driving. Not lost. Do not interfere. – SH

“Bitterness is a paralytic,” says Sherlock, and stops, and swallows.

Lestrade says nothing, and Sherlock does not continue.

John suspects. – MH

Sherlock freezes.

"What is it?" asks Lestrade, throwing his bag on the floor. It lands with a soft thud, contents sprawling over the carpet - soft clothes, a packed sandwich, a can of beer. He snatches his toothbrush before it can roll across to some place dirtier than it already is.

Sherlock sits.

"Not on my bed," says Lestrade automatically, and looks up. "Sherlock. What is it?"

Sherlock hands Lestrade his phone with trembling fingers. Lestrade takes it. He glances at the screen, and back at Sherlock.

"Uh," says Lestrade. "Is this, not according to plan, or. Wait, what?" John suspects what? That Sherlock is alive? Or that Lestrade is accompanying Sherlock? Both?

Sherlock is still on his bed, fingers balled into a white-knuckled grip.

"I'm... sorry?" hazards Lestrade, floundering.

Sherlock makes an indecipherable noise, and doesn’t meet Lestrade’s eyes when he says, "It's not me you'll have to apologise to. I am... sorry for that, too."

Sorry. Sorry! Lestrade exhales and says, with feeling, "You are such an idiot."

The look of surprise on Sherlock's face is immensely gratifying. "Excuse me?"

"Did you force me to come along? No, don't answer that," says Lestrade, as Sherlock’s mouth opens to protest. "I have always had a choice to stay or to leave. I've had a choice every single day that I wake up in a lousy hotel room and I choose to stay on for more. I've had a choice every single time I go skulking about rooftops in the middle of the night and I choose to accompany you anyway. I've always had a choice and I know what I’ve done - you know I could have left, and you know I almost did - but I didn’t. And I've lived with my choice for years.”

He straightens and says, “The guilt that I carry from my choice is not yours to bear, much less apologise for. Understood?"

For once, Sherlock's mouth is open, but he isn't saying anything. Lestrade smiles, exasperated and fond.

"Sherlock," he says gently, sitting close enough to touch, "Look. We always knew this day would happen. You can't kid yourself any more. John knows. You don't have an excuse to keep him out. You don't have to protect him from this anymore."

"You..."

"It's okay," says Lestrade, then he hesitates, sifting through a mess of feelings he thought he'd put away months ago.

"I'm okay, Sherlock," he says at last. "I spent the last two years wondering why I was here instead of John. Wondering why... and I figured- I figured it was because John was someone you couldn't lose. Not because you were afraid he'd be shot -- hell, you make him run around after armed murderers with an illegal firearm -- I know you know I knew that, stop looking at me as if I'm the idiot here."

The look Sherlock gives him is annoyed and wary all at once. Lestrade continues softly, "You told me, that day. You weren't afraid he'd get hurt because you know he can handle himself, the same way you know I can handle myself. The difference is- you were afraid he'd leave you, once he knew how desperate you could be. How low you could get."

Sherlock is silent. His face is buried, hidden by untidy curls, bleached and dyed over and over, rinse and repeat. Another sacrifice. For John.

"So you took me," he says. "Because I locked you up for almost killing yourself, the amount of drugs you took that day. Because I didn't take your brother's money. And because- because- if you had to bring someone you could trust, if you had to lose someone, by bullet or otherwise -- if you had to pick whom you would rather risk losing-"

"You do count," says Sherlock, voice rough. "You matter to me too."

Something bright and grateful blooms through Lestrade at the admission; it tides him over the hurt that resurfaces, that he acknowledges as he says softly, "But not as much as John does."

Sherlock doesn't deny it. Lestrade does not expect him to.

There is a moment of quiet. Lestrade starts, "Were you two ever-"

"No," replies Sherlock, rolling his eyes. "Honestly, Lestrade, must you listen to every nonsensical thing your underlings say?"

Lestrade winces, because one, he doesn't actually have underlings anymore, and two, the kidnapping. Sherlock must have noticed, because he says in a strange voice, "I don't blame you."

Lestrade inhales sharply, waiting.

"Besides," continues Sherlock, completely uncaring of the abruptness of his change in subject, "Even Mrs Hudson thought we were sleeping together, John’s girlfriends or not, so I guess you can be forgiven for entertaining the thought."

Lestrade lets out a breath, then raises an eyebrow in incredulity when he processes Sherlock's statement.

"She did? Wouldn't she have, uh, heard something?" he says, staring. Sherlock's face and voice has gone soft with affection, and it's a surprisingly perfect expression.

"Yes, probably," huffs Sherlock, and half-heartedly slips off the bed. He glances at Lestrade, and his features twist into a frown. "I'm normally not so transparent."

"I know," smiles Lestrade. "Though next time you are, we're sitting on your bed, alright?"

Sherlock throws him a look and flounces off to reception. It could mean a dozen different things from ‘there will never be a next time’ to ‘Lestrade will you stop obsessing over your bed already’, and so Lestrade laughs and chooses to see it as a thank you.

If this is you, you are an idiot, stop it, and come home. If you don’t know what I’m talking about, sorry, wrong number.

Remember to eat.

Even if it’s not mealtime, wherever you are.

Remember to eat.

Remember to sleep.

If i’m sending these to the wrong number, sorry, please tell me to stop.

No? Then, remember to eat.

Idiot, at least remember Greg.

Remember to check if the gun is loaded. I should give you lessons.

Remember grave-digging is illegal.

Wow, if this is the wrong number, I am so, so sorry, but my friend is an idiot.

Remember to eat.

Remember to sleep.

Don’t bully innocent witnesses, you prick.

Remember to eat.

It’s been two years today. I don’t know how you did it but I sometimes I don’t even know if i’m just

Would you reply, just once. For me. Please.

Missed call (3).

Why did you do it?

Why would you even try to keep me out?

Why do I even bother?

It has been two years and eleven months, and spring is ending. Lestrade stares at the darkened ceiling, unblinking. They were almost caught today.

"I died for you too," says Sherlock suddenly, curled up on the mattress next to Lestrade. "John, you, Mrs Hudson. Three bullets, three gunmen."

The air is quiet - Lestrade can hear traffic and the faint sound of laughter from the next room. He can hear his own breathing, too uneven for sleep, hitching to let Sherlock deduce how hard he was hit by every word.

"You never did tell me what happened that day," says Lestrade at last, marvelling at the way his voice remains steady when inside he is fraying apart: grateful and furious and proud. "I was beginning to think you never would."

Sherlock says, "It was me or them. But he forgot Molly."

"Molly? Molly Hooper?" asks Lestrade.

He thinks of Jim from IT, of Christmas and a skin-tight dress - and flushes. Molly had looked amazing. But he didn’t actually cheat on his wife, despite everything. Looking didn’t count for anything, anyway. Absolutely not.

"Yes, Molly Hooper. How many other 'Molly's do we know?" says Sherlock drily. "Your ex-wife is fine, by the way, and your guilt trip is ridiculous."

Lestrade makes a choked noise. "How-"

"As if anyone could miss the way your jaw dropped that night. Oh, or did you mean about your wife? Big Brother is keeping tabs on her, of course. Your daughter too. They're both still fine; no one has found out enough to connect you to who you were." Sherlock pauses. "But I digress."

Lestrade shakes his head in resignation. "Right. Okay. Molly?"

Sherlock makes a noise of affirmation, "Yes. She was instrumental in faking my death. Which was necessary in any case. Then Jim gave me an ultimatum: suicide and complete his story, otherwise-"

"He'd kill us," finishes Lestrade, feeling sick. "Three bullets, three gunmen. It was us, or you."

"Me or them," repeats Sherlock.

Three words, and Lestrade is undone.

"It was necessary to die that day, so I did." Sherlock props himself up on one elbow, looking at Lestrade, haloed by the dim light of the moon. His expression is unreadable in the shadow. Then he turns his head and the light slants across his face. Lestrade finds himself looking into clear, silver eyes.

"I'm not planning on dying again," says Sherlock, and Lestrade believes him. "Get some sleep. Tomorrow will be a long day."

Lestrade swallows, and watches as Sherlock lowers himself back onto the mattress.

“Thank you,” he says, a minute later.

“Don’t thank me yet,” murmurs Sherlock. Then, so softly: “I’m sorry.”

Lestrade closes his eyes, and breathes. Nothing to be sorry for, he thinks, and sleeps.

When he wakes up, Sherlock is gone.

"Sigerson?" he calls, heart thumping in his throat, thumping through the hotel: bathroom, corridor, breakfast -

The safe, he thinks, and backtracks, check the safe.

Both passports are there.

Lestrade slumps. Would it kill you to leave a note, he scrawls furiously, leaves it on the table, and goes for breakfast.

When he wakes up, Sherlock is gone.

Lestrade blinks the sleep out of his eyes. The mattress is cool and empty, and he rolls over, taking stock: location, time, Sherlock -- Sherlock?

Lestrade checks the safe, crosses his shaking fingers as he fumbles to enter the code. The door swings open.

Sherlock's passport is gone.

Lestrade curses viciously and for several minutes. He throws his things into his bag, picks up his phone and calls Mycroft.

As soon as the call connects he says, “Where is he.”

Mycroft’s voice is cool and utterly infuriating. “That’s what I’m hoping you’ll help me with. I’m sending my people over. Two minutes,” and he hangs up.

Lestrade exhales slowly. It doesn’t work. The niggling feeling in his gut just gets worse. He’s packed and swearing under his breath when the knock on his door comes.

He looks through the peephole, staggers, and opens the door.

“No time to explain,” says John grimly. “Let’s go.”

 The car is black, of course.

“So,” says John conversationally, once they’re seated and driving. “Hello.”

Lestrade winces. It’s one thing to bury guilt for two years, and another to actually talk about it.

“John,” he says, and thinks he should say something more, but can’t figure out the words. The city flicks past his window -- one traffic light, two, three -- and he turns to look. John’s hands are steady on the wheel, eyes forward, mouth straight.

John glances at him, and gives a small, tired smile. “We’re going to the factory,” he says, “where we have to rescue the most brilliant and the most idiotic person we know. We can talk later.”

Lestrade’s lips curve upwards gratefully.

“Yeah, okay,” he says. “Thanks.”

The computer in front of Moran’s employee is no longer in front of Moran’s employee, because Moran’s employee is lying on the floor and his clothes are on Sherlock Holmes, and the computer is in front of Sherlock Holmes instead.

Sherlock adjusts his spectacles. Time to work.

But the drive is half an hour long, and the silence is too tense for Lestrade to bear for long.

“We were going to do it together,” he blurts out, voice drowned by the sounds of the tyres on the road. He thinks John will forgive him, or he may not, but he needs to say it or he will never forgive himself. John’s hands tighten on the wheel.

Lestrade’s laugh is self-deprecating and a little fond. “Stupid. He always runs off and gets himself into trouble, not that I didn’t know that already. I don’t know how much Mycroft told you, or how much Sherlock told Mycroft. We were going to get into their computer system --  well, Sherlock was -- and access everything. Cripple them.”

John is silent. Lestrade continues, “We were checking it out for a few days. They almost discovered us, yesterday. I think- I think he decided it was too risky, for both of us to go in.”

“It wasn’t the first time,” asks John, not really a question.

“No. He’d make me stakeout while he ran in and did dangerous things. The security normally isn’t so tight that I’d worry about him.” Lestrade pauses. “But this time,” he says, and stops, and struggles to steady his voice.

“This time?”

Lestrade thinks of the night before, of cool liars in the moonlight. I'm not planning on dying again, Sherlock had said, perfectly and utterly convincing, and Lestrade hadn’t wondered at all. Then: I’m sorry, he had said.

He thinks of Sherlock, finally, two years and eleven months on, telling him why he died.

“This time,” says Lestrade slowly, unable to look John in the eye, “I’m not sure he’s planning to come back out.”

John doesn’t say anything, but the speedometer climbs far, far over the speed limit.

The computer in front of him pings softly.

Sherlock exhales. It is done. It is done it is done it is done and he is shaky with relief and exhaustion and then he hears the click.

“He kept thinking I was you, at first,” says Lestrade.

Fifteen minutes to their destination, the surroundings have become dry and vaguely familiar, borne of many nights and days reconnaissance. It occurs to Lestrade that it may be his last chance to apologise.

John glances at Lestrade, then back at the road. The road is black and smooth beneath their seats, the sound of a speeding car in their ears.

“Did you-” starts John, and he stops and frowns. “That was a lousy thing to do.”

Lestrade makes a noise like he doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. He looks out of the window, away from John. “Nothing new there. And. You should have been there. Instead of me.”

Lestrade closes his eyes against the sun. “Sorry,” he says quietly.

John doesn’t say anything. The car speeds along, faster than before.

The gun at the back of his head is cold and hard. Sherlock stills and puts his hands on his head.

“Turn around,” the voice orders. “Slowly.”

The man is wiry and jittery, but his hands are steady. “Who are you?”

Sherlock says, slowly, “I want to speak to your boss. Tell him it’s Sherlock Holmes. I’m unarmed.”

The man’s eyes narrow. “Mind if I check?”

“Oh, I insist.”

Ten minutes to their destination, John says, “I’m glad you were. There. I mean. If he wouldn’t take me.”

Lestrade turns to gape. John’s face is set in stone; jaw clenched, eyes bright.

“No, no, no,” says Lestrade vehemently. “No. He didn’t not take you because he didn’t want to take you, he didn’t take you because -”

Lestrade stops. John’s back is military straight, eyes on the road as he waits.

“I don’t know if it’s for me to tell,” says Lestrade finally. “If- when we get him out of there, you can ask him. But honestly, truly, John, he would have given anything to have you with him if he thought he could. Believe me.”

John swallows. He says, “Okay.”

The sound of a man crumpling unconscious to the floor is really quite frustratingly loud when one is hoping to escape.

Sherlock pockets the gun and weighs his chances. Then he pauses, sighs and sends off a text, and settles to wait.

Five minutes to their destination, John’s phone lights up with a text. He thinks it’s Mycroft, but it isn’t.

I'm sorry. I missed you too. - SH

John breathes, and the light is suddenly too bright, dazzling and dizzying and he leans his head back heavily.

"If you're not dead by the time I get there," says John aloud. "I will bloody kill you."

Waiting is boring, because it appears no one has heard the thud. Escaping is impossible with the current roster. Moran’s room is two corridors away.

Sherlock frowns, and starts to plot his route.

Four minutes to their destination, Lestrade says, “About backup.”

John laughs lowly. “Yeah, well. That’d be me.”

Sherlock pauses outside Moran’s room. A thin shutter of light spills from under the door frame onto his feet.

He takes a breath, sends another text, and knocks.

One minute to their destination, Lestrade’s phone chimes.

Thank you for everything. Take care of John. - SH

Lestrade curls his hand into a fist, wrinkling his dirty trousers into a tight bunch on on his thigh.

“Bloody self-sacrificing arse,” he says, gritting his teeth fiercely. “Don’t you dare die.”

“Come in.”

“So, here we are,” says Moran, gun in hand, sitting at his desk with perfect calm. Sherlock shuts the door behind him, holds open palms above his head.

Moran lowers his gun.

“Sherlock Holmes. The poor, friendless detective, on a suicide mission to overthrow Moriarty’s empire. You shouldn’t have come,” he says, and sounds almost regretful. “It’s not just your life you’re throwing away by coming here.”

Sherlock stiffens.

Moran smiles kindly. “When was the last time you saw John? He can’t bear to be in Baker Street anymore, you know. Maybe he’s gone back to Afghanistan. Men will do anything to feel alive. I’m sure you know the feeling.”

There is a kettle on the table at the side of the room. Moran follows Sherlock’s gaze. “Oh, of course, where are my manners? Here,” he says, gesturing toward it with his gun, “Have some tea.”

Sherlock crosses the room slowly. He makes his tea in silence.

It tastes terrible. He still can’t make it the way John used to.

“How about the dear Inspector?” says Moran, watching as Sherlock frowns at the tea. “Life in prison is really rather miserable, especially if you’re ex- law enforcement. Unless, you know, he’s not in prison at all.”

Sherlock sips his tea.

“Because yesterday, one of my people said they heard voices. Plural.” Moran’s gaze sharpens. “The way I see it, my contact in the prison hasn’t been answering my calls. And there’s only one of you.”

Sherlock smiles thinly. “I don’t think you should put much stock in a man who says he hears voices. Either way, you’re right. To the best of my knowledge I’m the only Sherlock Holmes that exists." He looks at Moran. "Would I really go through all the trouble of dying to protect my friends, and then bring them right to you?”

Moran flicks the safety off with an audible click. Sherlock puts down the teacup.

“I talk out loud when I’m thinking,” says Sherlock steadily. “Here’s what I’m thinking now. The good colonel has apparently decided that Lestrade has been accompanying me as I took down his organisation. You think I’m lying, or at least prevaricating, because if I was truly working alone I wouldn’t bother coming here at all. The only reason I would confront you is if we were nearly caught yesterday, and if I knew that if you were sharp enough to run a criminal organisation on this scale, you were sharp enough to piece together our trail.”

Sherlock looks at Moran’s smile, thin and sharp, and says, “Well. You’re right.”

Moran holds the gun up to Sherlock’s heart.

It thrums violently in his chest. Sherlock doesn’t think he could count the number of beats it has left if he wanted to.

Sherlock holds his voice steady. “But that doesn’t explain what I was hoping to achieve when I confronted you. So let me explain. I’ve come to tell you it’s over, and to tell you to leave my friends alone. In exchange, I’ll tell Mycroft to keep you alive and maybe he’ll let you live a satisfying life as an assassin, for queen and country."

“Explain,” says Moran, all trace of humour gone.

“I’ve sent out all your data,” says Sherlock. “The names and locations of your operatives. The records of all their crimes. The list of your clients. Everything. It’s over, Moran.”

“You’re bluffing.”

“I’m really not.”

Moran tilts his head in a manner eerily reminiscent of Moriarty. “And how exactly is this piece of information supposed to make me less inclined to kill you?”

“Your career here is over. I don’t think you’d enjoy prison very much either. If you kill me, you will bring down the full wrath of Mycroft upon your head. Neither are particularly pleasant situations to be in."

Moran flicks the safety back on and starts to polish the gun thoughtfully. “And what about your friends? I doubt he’d care very much about them.”

"Whereas I do," agrees Sherlock. "And would very much like for you to leave them be. Hence this deal."

Moran doesn't speak. The sound of cloth on metal, repetitive, fills the room.

Sherlock makes more tea. He stirs it between seven times clockwise, punctuating it with two anti-clockwise strokes on his fifth stirring. He holds the kettle at a sixty-degree angle five centimetres from the lip of the cup for three seconds, and waits.

"You're banking your entire deal on the premise that I would prefer to live as closely as it is now possible to my current lifestyle, in which I enjoy profiting from killing," says Moran finally. He puts down the cloth. "What if I decide that getting revenge on you is more appealing to me than being your brother's pet assassin, but I don't actually want to die?"

Sherlock lifts the teacup to his lips and takes a sip. It tastes slightly better, this time. "Then I suppose you would try to go after my friends instead, and get caught, and maybe live an extremely slow, miserable, rotting life. Or I'd kill you for trying." Sherlock looks straight at Moran as he says, "Just to be clear: It would also be slow."

Moran smiles languidly. "I see why Jim liked you."

Sherlock drinks his tea.

"Speaking of Jim," says Moran casually, "You killed him."

"No," says Sherlock, "He killed himself. Literally."

"Do you miss him?" says Moran, voice soft as silk. "I do. I want to kill you. And I want to kill your friends. What do I have left to lose?"

The question hangs in the air.

Sherlock swallows the last of his tea. Slowly, he says, "If you let them be, you can have me instead. I'll tell Mycroft to let you go."

Moran laughs. “So you were on a suicide mission.”

Sherlock scowls.

“Oh, this is too funny,” he says, smiling. “Do you honestly think he’d let me go after I shot you? After all that time you spent trying to convince me that killing you would make my life a miserable hell?"

Not a chance, thinks Sherlock.

“If it was my dying wish, yes,” says Sherlock instead. “He owes me that much."

Moran claps his hands together, smiling. “Well, this has been fun. But I’m going to have to decline your offer, seeing as you're lying through your teeth. I'm going out fighting, Sherlock. I'm not going to live as someone's pet, either."

"Oh? But weren't you Jim's?" asks Sherlock bitingly, and flinches. In one smooth motion Moran has the gun trained on his chest, cocked and ready. His eyes are dark and hard.

"Once I'm done with you," he says, "I'm going into hiding, and then I'm going after John. He's going to know you didn't care enough to let him know you were alive, until he finds out you're dead. He's going to know you died twice and that he couldn't do a thing to save you both times. He's going to wonder all his life -- why didn't Sherlock take me? Why did I have to be so useless? Why can't I get anything right, anymore? And then I'll come for him. And you know what? By that time, he won't even resist."

Sherlock doesn't even realise he's trembling until hears the teacup rattle as he sets it down. The outline of the gun in his coat presses against his hip. Distantly, Sherlock remembers what it's like to use a gun, and the sick feeling that comes with it.

It would be worth it. Moran isn't a very nice man. Sherlock would sleep peacefully, for a very long time.

Moran smiles viciously. "You know, these PSTD types can be quite suicidal. Even if I don't make it out of here alive, he could very well finish the job himself."

Sherlock can feel the gun through the fabric. Too far. Too slow. He takes a breath, and counts the beats of his heart.

"Goodbye, Sherlock."

The shot splinters the air, deafeningly close. It slams through Sherlock's ears in a bright surge of pain. Something warm and sticky spreads across his chest.

I'm dying, realises Sherlock. In other words: I'm not dead. He can tell because it's hurts to breathe.

The brightness clears, and hazy and muddled, he sees John.

Maybe I am dead, he thinks, but then again John is thinner and not even looking at him, which rules out hallucination. Which means the real John isn't looking at him, either. Sherlock would be offended about that if only it took less effort, or if John weren't looking at Moran so hatefully that it cheers Sherlock to see.

Then he notices Moran's right arm dangling limply at his side, and his left arm that is unfortunately fine and is still pointing a gun at him.

Sherlock groans painfully. He really doesn't want to be shot again. His stolen gun is digging into his hip from where he'd collapsed, an uncomfortable pressure barely discernable over the roaring pain of his- chest? Shoulder? If he twists a bit he can probably reach it.

Sherlock twists a bit, and his vision goes a bit white and he bites off a cry.

By the time he can think again Moran has started talking. "--Captain Watson, nice to finally meet you. Except you shot me in the arm, which wasn't actually nice. And you did just take out all of my men. Have you come to watch Sherlock die?"

"I was aiming for your heart, actually," says John mildly, and Sherlock wants to laugh in relief at the sheer sound of his voice. Instead he grits his teeth and makes another, slower movement for the gun.

"I know," says Moran, smiling. "I was aiming for his. Drop the gun, captain, or I guarantee he'll be dead in the next five seconds."

John tightens his grip on the gun. Moran frowns, and a bullet buries itself in the floor five centimetres from Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stops.

John's face twists, but he places the gun on the floor.

John, you idiot, thinks Sherlock, exasperatedly fond and also profoundly relieved. I’m alive. And he's going to kill us all.

John stands up, kicking his gun away.

Sherlock gradually wraps his hand around the gun. He thinks, John, I know how to use a gun now. I’ve done it before. I’m going to do it again.

"Good. You too, inspector."

Oh. Sherlock hadn't noticed Lestrade, but he’s there too. Lestrade grimaces and lowers the gun, very slowly. Moran's eyes track the movement.

Don’t look.

Sherlock flicks the safety and empties the clip.

Moran falls.

Sherlock closes his eyes.

"--lock. Sherlock. Sherlock, can you hear me? Open your eyes. Keep your eyes open. Come on."

Sherlock opens his eyes. John flickers into view. He is frowning fiercely at Sherlock, and also trying to tell him something?

"Paramedics are on the way, so hold on, alright?" John sighs, and mercifully, keeps talking. Sherlock smiles giddily at his voice. "You are, hands down, the most irritating friend that I have ever had in my life. You are not allowed to die, you hear me? Do you know how frustrating it is to be unable to hit you right now?"

"John," he rasps.

"Yes, yes," says John, "That's me. I'm here, Sherlock."

"Where?"

"What? The factory?" he says, furrowing his brow. The expression is so familiar that for a moment Sherlock forgets the last three years and knows nothing but a sharp awareness of Baker Street, and an even sharper longing for home.

"No, in the shoulder or the chest? The shot," he clarifies, or at least, tries to. But it's okay, because John understands.

"Shoulder," says John shortly. Sherlock beams.

"Like you," he says happily, and maybe he's slightly delirious, but he thinks John's shoulders are shaking.

"Wrong shoulder," replies John, eyes bright and wet.

"Oh," says Sherlock, disappointed. "There's always something."

Then the helicopters arrive, and John relinquishes Sherlock with a sigh.

Later, when Sherlock is awake, Mycroft comes. He is the first.

Sherlock has been awake for almost a dozen minutes. The painkillers make him dull at the edges and he loathes it. He loathes the chair in the room, because the cup is on the left hand side and John isn’t there.

Mycroft looks at him, and Sherlock looks back.

"You've wrecked your hair," he says, terribly mundane.

"You've gained weight," replies Sherlock, but there’s no heat to it. Mycroft sits ruefully. He says, “You’re too thin.”

Sherlock says, “John used to text me to eat.”

Mycroft’s expression doesn’t change, but the curl of his fingertips betray his tension. Sherlock says quietly, “Mycroft.”

“He’s- John is very good,” says Mycroft. “Cleaning up after you move on. He only guessed, I never confirmed. I sent him home to get some sleep.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Mycroft visibly hesitates, and faces Sherlock.

“I approached him,” he admits. “I needed to be sure he was safe. I moved Mrs Hudson and Ms Hooper as well, and the inspector’s family. He’d already been hoping. You were, after all, on the internet.”

Sherlock fingers the sheets. “Was he... was he alright alone?”

“Mostly,” allows Mycroft. “The newspaper articles helped. It gave him something to hope for. I told him you were one of my people working to take down Moriarty’s organisation, and he agreed to help.”

“When was this?”

“About a year ago. He grew more certain it was you as the months when on.” Mycroft sighs. “Only you would go grave digging. Honestly, Sherlock, haven’t you heard of subtlety?”

“That was just the once,” says Sherlock, affronted. “And I’m not the one who actually did the digging, that was Lestrade.”

Mycroft’s lips quirk upwards. “Speaking of the inspector, I hear he was wrongfully convicted and will be fully reinstated in New Scotland Yard next month.

Sherlock grins. “Speaking of the inspector, I hear he punched the British government.”

Mycroft’s smile immediately drops. Sherlock laughs. “He did! You let him?”

“You let him punch you, too,” says Mycroft sourly, and with some difficulty, pushes himself off the chair.

“Yes, I did,” agrees Sherlock. “Did you start any wars while I was gone?”

Mycroft makes to exit. “For you? Yes, in a manner of speaking. But they were rather short-lived.”

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitches. “Mycroft,” he calls, and watches as brother stills at the door. Sherlock sits up and clears his throat. “Thank you,” he says.

Mycroft turns, and nods. “I’ll send John,” he promises, and picks up an umbrella on the way out.

Sherlock lowers himself onto the pillows with a huff. So transparent, he sighs.

Sherlock wakes to see John in the next chair. He shakes his head to clear it. The mental fog is considerably thinner this time, and he can feel his shoulder throbbing dully through the bandages. “John,” he says.

The way John turns is familiar and unfamiliar at the same time, as is the way his face sets when he thinks Sherlock has done something particularly idiotic and is trying to be more furious about it -- things that linger in his hard drive long after they had ceased to become relevant, and Sherlock can still read this well enough to be unsurprised when John thwacks him in his good shoulder, hard.

“Ow,” says Sherlock woundedly. He'd felt that.

“You’re a prat,” says John immediately. “An enormous, ridiculous, gigantic prat.”

Sherlock can’t even rub his shoulder because his other shoulder is immobile. He sulks. “Enormous and gigantic mean the same thing,” he says as obnoxiously as he can.

“Prat,” says John, but he’s grinning, and Sherlock is grinning, and then they’re both giggling like idiots until they run out of breath and John has to look away to stop his smile from splitting his face apart.

Once they sober up, Sherlock takes a deep breath, and says, “I- ah, I should probably apologise.”

John says, “Yes, you should.”

Sherlock looks at John solemnly. “I’m sorry.”

“You should be.”

“I am.”

John stands and goes to make tea. Mycroft’s cabinet contains a frankly alarming quantity of tiny expensive packets, but at least none of his cups have mysterious (but, Sherlock had asserted, completely harmless) blue chemical stains on them.

“You could have told me,” says John, as he waits for the kettle to boil. On the other side of the room, Sherlock’s shoulder throbs uncomfortably. “I had to find out by chasing you halfway around the world. You could have said something.”

“I know.”

“You didn’t.”

“I know,” repeats Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”

John gives a frustrated sigh. “So you’ve said. Aren’t you going to tell me why?”

“Not now. Please?” says Sherlock, thinking not when I’ve just found you, I don’t want to lose you to this, I’m not a hero, can’t lose you like this, not now, not now.

John doesn’t say anything. He stands there until the kettle starts to whistle, and then he shuts it off and starts to pour.

“Alright,” he says finally. “Later.”

Sherlock closes his eyes in relief. He struggles to sit upright and watches as John stirs the tea. John makes two cups.

“You quit the clinic.”

John looks up sharply.

“Mycroft told me,” says Sherlock. He’d deduced it from the bags under John’s eyes and the way he was stiff from an old bed - hard to live in London on an army pension, and harder still to afford comfortable furniture without a job.

He doesn’t like to think of what John’s life was like before Sherlock, or after, the same way he doesn’t like to think of what his own life was before John. He doesn’t think John would like to be reminded of it, either.

“Ah,” says John. He heads towards the bed with the two cups of tea. “Careful, it’s hot.”

Sherlock accepts the tea. “Why?”

“Mycroft didn’t tell you?” asks John, sarcastically. Sherlock blinks. Really, he never used to be this transparent. Then again, John had always been able to see through him.

“No.”

John shrugs. “Didn’t want to anymore,” he says shortly. “Did Mycroft actually tell you anything?”

“Some things,” admits Sherlock. “He said you were mostly fine and that you agreed to help take down Moriarty’s organisation, but you weren’t a hundred percent sure you were following me until you found the remains of our grave-digging expedition and decided it couldn’t be anyone else.”

John huffs, and mutters something that sounds like ‘bloody Mycroft’. He says, “Yeah, that pretty much sealed it. What on earth were you trying to do with the blindfolds?”

“Er,” says Sherlock. “We were trying to get onto the internet?”

John shakes his head and drinks his tea. “Idiot,” he smiles. “But thanks.”

Sherlock smiles back.

“Mycroft.”

“John.”

“You didn’t tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“That I...” John swallows. That you only recruited me because I kept a gun in my top drawer and would stare at it every night, that when half-hoped messages weren’t enough I would thumb the safety and then lock the drawer and throw the key halfway across the room. That one night I flicked the safety and put my finger on the trigger and cried and the next morning you sent me after him.

Mycroft’s voice is calm and distant over the phone. “Irene Adler, John. Whatever you want to tell him, it’s your choice. Will that be all?”

“I- yes. Alright.”

Much later, Sherlock is out of hospital and has complained about his bandages twice, and after they have promised Mrs Hudson to never again leave Baker Street, John asks, "Are you alright?"

"What?"

"You killed people."

Oh.

Sherlock looks away. "They weren't very nice people," he says.

"No," agrees John.

Sherlock looks at John miserably. He huddles on the sofa swathed in his dressing gown, drawn across himself like flimsy armor. “I’m not a hero, John. It was- it was hard. And then it got easier. I didn’t want you to see. But you did.”

“No,” says John softly. “Not always. But you were, sometimes. A hero, I mean. Greg told me what you did. So - thank you.” He pauses. “I don’t think I’d have wanted to see, either, but I’d have understood. I’d rather have gone with you. I’m selfish like that. Did you completely miss the part where I tried to kill Moran too?”

“That’s different,” says Sherlock into his gown, muffled by his arms. “I was in immediate danger. But. I needed information.”

John understands immediately. Of course he does. Sherlock doesn’t put up with fools. He waits, head down, desperately trying to stave off the inevitable.

He’s not prepared for John to hug him.

“Oh, Sherlock,” sighs John, folding his arms tight around Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock, awkwardly, confused and flailing, hugs back.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, and Sherlock holds on, and believes.

And they are fine.

When Sherlock and John finally show up at his crime scene, Lestrade affects a deep, soul-wrenching sigh, and hopes no one notices his smile.

“Sir,” one of the new ones squeaks, “Er, there’s a- it’s- ah- I think it’s-”

“Yes, yes,” he says dismissively, “Get Donovan to deal with it.”

Sally is, for better or worse, still on his team, and while she had been doing her duty as a police officer, he’s also gotten a bit more ruthless of late and he really can’t bring himself to care about sending her to face Sherlock.

“Sally! Good morning,” he hears Sherlock say brightly, and smothers a laugh. “Domestic bliss must suit you, you’ve put on five pounds since I’ve last saw you. But not with Anderson, I see, which is the smartest choice I've ever known you to make. Is he still around?"

He isn't, as a matter of fact. Sherlock is delighted. He tells Lestrade this, when Sally brings him in, and fires off deductions about the scene until John prods him in his bandaged shoulder.

Lestrade winces along with Sherlock. John looks unrepentant. "Manners," he says reproachfully.

"Good morning, Inspector Lestrade," says Sherlock obediently, a smile ghosting at the tips of his grimace. Lestrade grins. "Good morning, Sherlock. John's been feeding you, then?"

"You've put on weight too. Just as Molly has, I presume."

John's jaw drops. "Molly? Wow, really?"

"Yeah," says Lestrade, smiling widely. "Yeah, she's great."

"Good for you," says John approvingly. Sherlock clears his throat. "As I was saying, the victim was clearly from Wales, but she's been living with a man for at least a couple of months - not her husband, she doesn't have a husband, you can see from her finger. Most likely this man is-"

Sherlock stops and frowns. "Are you listening to me?" he says crossly.

"Hm? What, yeah, go on," says Lestrade. He really wasn't.

John glances at him and they share a smile. Sherlock narrows his eyes and resumes his deductions, and the both of them watch as he swirls his great coat around, vibrant and unstoppable and brilliantly, wonderfully alive.

“It turned out alright, didn’t it?” Lestrade wonders aloud.

“Yeah,” agrees John. “It did.”

We have not touched the stars,
nor are we forgiven, which brings us back 
to the hero’s shoulders and the gentleness that comes, 
not from the absence of violence, but despite 
the abundance of it.

- Richard Siken, Snow and Dirty Rain

The End.