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Guilty Pleasures	By : CodyMThomas Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 8167 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 1
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters or content associated with BBC Sherlock, I am merely playing with them for my own amusement and make no money from this fic

Chapter List
- 1-Guilty Pleasures
- 2-2
- 3-3
- 4-4
- 5-5
- 6-6
- 7-7
- 8-8
- 9-9
- 10-10
- 11-11
- 12-Chapter 12
- 13-13
- 12
- 13
A/N: Welcome to the Final chapter for this story. That's right, I finally found a way to finish this story after a truly ridiculous wait time. I last updated this in 2013. Yikes! I am SO sorry for the wait. If any of you are still around, I do hope that you enjoy this.
Warning now that the character of Mrs. Holmes was written LOOOONG before we saw her on the show, like I think I was first writing this while we waited for season 2, and then I kept writing in it during that giant hiatus before season 3, So Sherlock's parents were NOT remotely based on the show when I wrote them.
I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters. I am writing this for fun and make no profit off of it.
-.-.-.-.-.
It was inconvenient that the agent was placed in a medically induced coma and put in Intensive Care Isolation, but John had assured him it was necessary and the best way to prevent complications from the head injury and subsequent brain surgery. Mycroft was also displeased that the man's jaw had been wired into a slightly open position to help aid his breathing and he probably wouldn't be able to talk. But he also had to admit he was impressed, he had seen an entirely different side to John H. Watson these past two days. First when they were at Iron Town and then once he got into the operating room. He had viewed the tapes from the surgery and was very comfortable describing what John and the other doctors had done an absolute miracle. He had seen the agent's injuries when he was being prepared for transport and could honestly declare that if he had ever found himself in such a state he would have either begged for death or found a way to end himself instead of even trying for surgery, and yet they had still found a way to keep the man alive.
John was currently resting after enjoying his hard won success with the others who had saved the agent's life, and honestly Mycroft didn't think a group dinner at a nice restaurant was enough. Then again none of them were aware of who they had saved or what exactly had been stopped or recovered.
Five years of deep undercover work cooperating with nine different governments to collect intel on insurgents trying to amass weapons, whose primary objective was to get another country to fire the first shot so they would be justified in declaring war, and they were within a month of being able to do it. Their main contact was a man called Sebastian Moran, the right hand man for one of the most notorious shadow crimelords in the world, known only to other criminals as a name whispered in terror, 'Moriarty' as if he were the Boogie Man or the Devil himself. Any criminal mastermind that struck terror into the hearts of some of the most ruthless cutthroats in the underworld was definitely someone they had their eye on. This agent had successfully retrieved not only all of the information on the insurgents, but also managed to get a detailed view of the vast web that Moriarty controlled, and the information had been terrifying. There wasn't a major or minor criminal element that the man wasn't involved with or connected to in some form or another. Drugs, theft, money laundering, protection rackets, street gangs, counterfeiting, smuggling, jewels, false antiques, real antiques, political bribes, assassinations, weapons, starting or ending wars, government corruption, terrorist movements, bombings, political backing and blackmail, there wasn't a single thing he wasn't involved with. And Mycroft realized with a sickening realization, Moriarty was almost too big to fail. If they cut off one leg the others would absorb the loss and he'd retaliate with twice as much vengeance and rebuild it up again stronger. How had they not seen such a major player for so long?
The chip had just been the proof that would hold up in court, including files, photos, audio and documents. This agent however had crucial information on their movements and whereabouts, hideouts, and weapons caches, as well as their base of operations. Losing him would set them back at least six months to a year in containing this situation and two years in neutralizing it. If he pulled through, and against all odds, recovered, John will have been personally responsible for having prevented a war, and taken major steps in helping them stop Moriarty. Mycroft would personally arrange for each of them to have an all expense paid vacation. He had already made a very generous contribution to the hospital as thanks for being so accommodating on such short notice, and his assistant was arranging thank you gifts for the nurses and techs.
They stayed in a nearby hotel for several days, John taking in the sights, spending time with his friend and keeping a close watch on his patient, and Mycroft manipulating all of the strings he needed to in order to get what he could rolling without knowing the exact specifics. Everything was poised to strike, all he needed now was to know where to aim. As such it was a great relief when after the fourth day John informed him that their patient was out of the immediate danger zone, breathing fully on his own, and could be weaned off of the barbiturates that had been keeping him under. By day six he was off of them, and merely unconscious. The only thing left to determine was if his mind was still whole. They temporarily removed him from all painkillers so that he would wake up and they could determine his condition.
Six hours later they had their answer. Mycroft and John were at the bedside waiting when Robert Fletcher woke up from the pain and though he couldn't scream, he still tried.
John immediately stepped forward and placed a comforting hand on the agents head. "Relax soldier, you're safe now, we've got you back and you are wounded but you are going to live. Just blink once for yes and twice for no. Can you understand what I'm saying soldier?”
The man replied by clenching his eyes shut tightly.
“Good. My name is Major John Watson with Her Majesty's Royal Army, I'm your attending surgeon and physician. You were recovered and brought to Broomfield hospital in Chelmsford Essex. You are safe I promise you. I know you're in a lot of pain, but I need to run a few response, movement, and sensation tests so that we can determine the full state of your injuries and then you will be given as many painkillers as you want and allowed to rest again. Your jaw is wired for the next three to four weeks minimum and you are in traction so that you don't accidentally reopen your wounds. Do you understand?"
One blink.
"Perfect. I know the meds have left you drowsy and numb in some areas, and that the rest of you feels like hell. That's normal, I just need you to wiggle the toes on your left foot. Alright and now the right foot. Thank you. Now tell me if the areas I press on you can currently feel pain or pressure, it doesn't matter which, just once for 'yes' twice for 'no'.
"Les leg nun."
"Alright, left leg is completely numb. Can you feel anything in the right leg?"
"Nee."
"Alright that's very good. Arms?"
"Hurt."
"Yes I know. Do both arms hurt?"
He blinked once.
"Try and wiggle your right thumb, alright now your left thumb. Perfect. Can you feel my hand on your stomach?"
One blink.
"Alright we will give you a more extensive test later when you have recovered more. Do you have any allergies that I need to know about?"
Two blinks.
"Do you have any allergies or sensitivities to penicillin?
Two blinks.
"Do you have any problems with opiate medications?"
Two blinks.
"Alright, I know you are hurting bad so we are putting you on the good stuff. This is Fentanyl, it's much stronger than morphine and it should keep you nice and comfortable. I'm going to give you a one hundred microgram injection to your central line in just a moment that will probably knock you out pretty quickly and you will be getting regular doses for the next few days. I am attaching this button within distance of your thumb. If you have pain, press it and it will automatically dispense ten micrograms into your central line, and you can have a dose every fifteen minutes. If that's not enough use this button in your other hand to call the nurse and she already has my approval to increase as necessary. Don't try to be a hero, you've already done that and now your body needs to recover. The best way for it to do that is for it to do as little as possible, and that includes communicating with itself that you are hurt. All your medications and nutritional needs as well as any blood that needs to be drawn can be handled through your central line. You can also call the nurse for mouth swabs and small amounts of ice chips, but I'm afraid you won't be eating anything for a while. Though with hospital food I doubt you will really be missing much. Do you have any questions?"
"D-di I loos leg?"
"No you didn't. You lost a kidney, some intestine, a bit of liver but that will grow back, and we recovered what we could of your genitals. Reconstructive surgery for that is an option for later on, but we didn't amputate any limbs or extremeties, though it was a near thing with your left leg. Whether you will still be able to use them we aren't sure yet. Earlier I would have said it didn't look good with the amount of nerve damage you had, but you have far more feeling and movement than we had hoped, and you may regain more after the swelling goes down. Right now there isn't a single part of your system that isn't inflamed either from injury or infection, and that puts pressure on your nerves and circulatory system, which in turn can make things go numb. As the swelling reduces, what sensation you can regain will return too. That is when we can make a better assessment of the damage. You already pulled off one miracle, something tells me you are just stubborn enough to go for a second one if you set your mind to it. Now, your boss wants to talk to you for a moment. I'll give you half of this now, to start getting you out of pain, and the other half when he's done, alright?"
One blink.
"Good, when you wake up again a primary care physician will come in to talk to you about the details of your surgeries and to discuss your options. You're scheduled with your orthopaedic surgeon Dr. Wheaton tomorrow morning, to discuss the other surgeries you are scheduled for once this infection clears up. We also have a vetted trauma counselor on hand if you want to talk to someone once we unwire your jaw, and we can easily arrange for the clergy member of your choice to visit you if you are a religious man."
John injected the first half and smiled at the man whose eyes looked scared as well as full of pain. Sympathy not Empathy, he knew he shouldn't get emotionally attached to his patients, but even so, he was a compassionate man and this guy had been through Hell. How wrong could a little compassion go? He leaned a bit closer and kept his voice low enough to not carry.
"Look, I know this is terrifying, but just keep fighting soldier, you didn't win this war just to be defeated by a skirmish, and now you've got the entire British Government backing you up and pissed off at the ones who did this to you. Your boss has been on my ass to wake you for days now just so he knows who to shoot at. You'll get through this and prove that yes they hurt you, but even though they did their absolute worst they couldn't fully break you, because you're still alive. Your heart stopped four times, do you understand that? You died four times in one day and you are still here. If you had truly wanted to die, there's nothing we could have done to have kept you breathing on that table, in fact with how badly you were injured you only stood a ten percent chance of even making it through all those surgeries, let alone coming out of it as more than a vegetable. Technically you should have been declared as too far gone to save and been allowed to slip away after making you comfortable on pain killers because it would have been the far more 'humane' treatment. But you got placed with the stubborn surgeon whose willing to fight as long as the patient is, and here you are, aware, alert, and still going. You didn't stop fighting, it was your will to live that pulled you through. And even though you are going to feel like shit for a very long time, you are still breathing, which is more than I can say for the bastards who did this if I know your boss. Oh and I owe you dinner wherever you like when you finally get out of here, I promised you one if you would just stop flatlining on me and you kept up your end."
The man laughed a bit, and it was evident that the fentanyl was taking effect. John smiled and then stepped back to allow Mycroft forward.
"009, I'll keep this brief, but I need to ask you some questions before you can go back to sleep."
One blink
"Was it the red, the black, or the orange?"
Three blinks.
"Was it the whole group or the ones you were following?"
Two blinks
"Do you know how you were compromised?"
Two blinks
"Alright. That's more than enough to go on. Agent Fletcher, I want to let you know that you have done us all proud. You protected the information. They never found the chip, and nothing you may have said under torture will aid them in any way. Agent Langley is already in place with a task force to take them into custody. They won't get away with it. If you want to watch or even give the order yourself I will arrange it personally. I don't abandon my agents, especially ones who have gone so far beyond what was asked and who have endured so much for Queen and country. If you want to take an early retirement you will be set for life, if you recover to the point you want to stay on you will have your choice of positions and still be set for life when you retire. You are also still on the clock even now, and your current orders are to heal. Rest, I will keep you updated."
He motioned John forward again and he administered the rest of the painkiller. "Rest easy soldier." Moments later, Fletcher was deeply asleep and they moved back out into the hall.
"Why did you have him try to move his toes if you believe him to be paralyzed?"
"Because that man just refuses to be a statistic. Even though all the signs point to it, unless he's missing the lower half of his body there is still a chance that medicine will be proven wrong and he will find a way to walk under his own power again. Even if it seems hopeless at the time, sometimes the nerves can eventually repair themselves, and I don't take that hope away from people unless I have no other choice. Call it an optimistic view if you like, but telling them they might recover if they just keep fighting does them a lot more good than convincing them that they won't. It makes them strive harder rather than just giving up. It takes twice as long to un-train a bad habit as it does to just start off with a good one. The human body has a remarkable ability to heal, and the human mind an unfathomable ability to overcome, and our treatments are constantly evolving. I know what determined people can do Mycroft, and if they keep that hope and will to succeed going, there is a million ways they continually love to prove medicine and pessimistic doctors wrong. Besides, his right foot twitched, and he didn't know it wasn't supposed to."
"Are you serious?"
John pushed the button for the elevator.
"Yes. I don't know if he'll ever make a full recovery, but he's not a vegetable, and that's more than almost any other doctor would have diagnosed for him on arrival. Congratulations, you saved a man's life Mycroft."
Mycroft looked puzzled.
"What on earth are you talking about? I threw you at a bleeding man and arranged for a helicopter and that's about it, you and the others are the ones who saved his life."
John actually laughed. "We're the ones who were allowed to put the pieces back together in time, you're the one who saved his life. Like it or not, the practice of medicine is a business like any other, and businesses don't like bad numbers, or wasted cost of doctors and supplies, especially in the important areas like surgery, it makes them look bad. Robert Fletcher would have been a bad number no one would have bet on. If you had brought him in off the street they would have done something, but I guarantee you it wouldn't have been what we did. He would have died on the table 15 minutes in, from the first time he flatlined if they knew about his DNR or were just feeling merciful to the poor bastard. Otherwise they would have taken care of the most life threatening issues in order to stabilize him and then waited for approvals on other surgeries, most likely from his next of kin if he had any. His chances for survival of enduring multiple surgeries wasn't looking good, time was our worst enemy, we had a very small window where we had about a twenty percent chance of actually saving his life. To give him the best shot it had to be an all or nothing bet, otherwise he would have run out of time.
And you want me to believe that the leading trauma hospital in Britain miraculously had an open operating theatre on short notice, along with almost immediately being able to recruit three of the best surgeons in the hospital and their fields to perform an over twenty hour, four person tandem emergency operation, spanning three specialized areas, and switched with no other surgeons until we finished just happened ? Not for a second, and never with his odds. Do you honestly think anyone would have gotten permission from the surgical director for something like that if it had been anyone else who originally only had a ten percent chance of surgical survival and he couldn't even consent? Never. That was all your own pull. Carl Greenburg was right, this was a surgery for the history books. What we did is not how it usually goes, it was an exception in every sense. If anyone saw the tapes, surgical teachers would be begging for copies. They could be used literally as recruitment videos for future surgeons, especially if the end had a clip saying he made it and showed a video of him alive and well. That kind of surgery made us look like superheroes. Hell I want a copy of the surgery, just because half of it is a blur because I was running on adrenaline and coffee at the time and also because I know that Carl Greenburg and Michael Wheaton did some amazing work that I would love to take a better look at. They would probably love copies too, if only to convince themselves they actually did a surgery like that. You cut through all the red tape that would have kept us from saving him, you kept the window open and gave us what we needed. You saved his life Mycroft, feel proud about it."
And the British Government did.
*************************************

Mycroft sat in his office, having just gotten off the phone with his eldest brother, telling him they would be arriving in the next day or two and explaining the full situation to him. He was convinced more than ever that crossing John's string with Sherringford's could only calm things down and take a lot of the bite out of the eventual understanding of what had occurred. Sherringford would be an invaluable asset in this situation, he was the epitome of subtle strength and strong protection, proficient in the areas Mycroft was not, and he could handle emotional things far more delicately than Mycroft could.
Mycroft understood emotion of course, far better than Sherlock at any rate, but he was skilled in its use only so far as it applied to how he could manipulate and twist and bend a person's feelings and reactions in order to get someone to do what he wanted, most times while thinking it was all their own idea. That trick would not serve here, and Sherringford was far more gentle with broken things than he could ever be, and John didn't even know he was broken yet. Yes, the best course for minimizing the damage was to twine John and Sherringford's threads about each other, tightly if he could manage it, near enough for a bit of influence but not too near the place where Sherringford's was connected to their mother's. She was a good person, but a bit too likely to go to the other extreme and mother and pamper and coddle John to the point he felt pitied and stupid for being taken in, which would weaken the result Mycroft was going for.
What a mess. And really, completely unnecessary if Sherlock could ever be arsed to consider the consequences. John, as always was an enigma. For the first time ever, Mycroft had chosen John and his happiness over blood family, and not just any family, but over SHERLOCK. Something until it had happened he was unaware could even occur. Until now, if Sherlock had been a serial killer Mycroft would have been cleaning up the bodies and finding someway to make sure no one ever knew while finding a way to get his brother professional help, but now he had picked John over Sherlock, and he wasn't sorry. Something in him was desperately wanting Sherlock to be squirming over John being gone, in fact he would have liked to have kept his errant little brother in that tortured state of panicked unknowing for quite a while longer, that had been the whole point of the entire dramatic 'abduction' after all, well that and he really had needed to hit John for being a careless idiot. But John, as always, was too merciful and willing to release his brother from his well earned torment. However, when all was said and done, if John wished to seek retaliation, (doubtful but one could hope) he was sure he could find something appropriate.
Those two...the way they fit together had been so instantaneous and strong, Mycroft admitted he was still baffled by it. He had often wondered that if there were such things as reincarnation, (though he had yet to acquire conclusive evidence either way), if perhaps he was privileged enough to be witness to one of the grand pairings, whose affection and love for each other was beyond the definition or scope of the human experience, and the power of which was so strong that even thousands of years later their bond would not be forgotten. He wondered If one day the names John Watson or Sherlock Holmes could not be uttered without calling to mind the other, and the indefinable connection that existed between them. They had often reminded him of Alexander and Hephaestion, or perhaps Achilles and Patroclus, who gladly faced danger and death side by side, and together had made the other shine even brighter and achieve even greater things. Maybe even Hadrian and Antinous, a love that through sheer force of will and against societies' strictures was so strong that if tragedy occurred it would rise up to demand that it would never be forgotten. If that were the case, he wondered which one was which, who would grieve the loss of the other to the point they couldn't rest until the other was immortalized as a god? Sherlock, or John? Somehow it was a comfort that he couldn't come up with a definite response.
The next day Robert Fletcher was recovered to the point John felt fine about signing him over completely to Mark, Carl, and Michael's care, with strict orders for all four men to keep in touch, and the contact information of one of the best physiotherapists he knew in London.
By midafternoon they were finally pulling up to the main house of Holmes Manor, Holmestead Groves, even though they would probably be staying in the west annex house Briar Rose Hall, or if Mycroft had his way about it, he would take over the southern guest house Crestfield Point for the duration of his stay and let everyone else get up to whatever they wished.
Of the staff of fifty and supplies he'd had sent up in order to help prepare for their arrival a week ago so that their appearance conscious mother would not feel stressed about the possibility of John coming across a single speck of dust or untidiness, only ten were standing out front to greet them, along with the permanent staff of ten, meaning she was taking the opportunity to use the extra help to get all of the other houses in order and anything else done she had been putting off for more urgent things as well. The visible grounds were immaculate, and he had no doubt the veritable army of gardeners were somewhere on the expansive acreage creating or maintaining an Eden for his mother. He'd keep them all on here for another month or so as a gift, so his mother could host one of her parties, she did so love to play hostess.
"Wow this place is huge, don't tell me you have a private hospital here with another person for me to fix up?"
"On the contrary, it is you who is coming here for a respite. I do believe I have mentioned the Holmes estate to you before, and since we were nearby, Mummy insisted on a visit. Her name is Violet Eloise Holmes, Marchioness of Essex, and the large man beside her is our eldest brother, Sherringford Holmes, Marquess of Essex. There is a bouquet of her favorite flowers in that box beside you that you can give to her. Welcome to Holmestead Groves Doctor Watson."
Nervous didn't even begin to describe what he was feeling, trust Mycroft to just throw him into the deep end without warning. But present, yes, that was at least good, and he was looking smart in one of the suits Mycroft had provided for him. (How the man knew his measurements, John didn't want to know.) The estate was beautiful, and he could easily imagine a young Sherlock dashing about, avidly exploring every nook and cranny of the expansive lands until he knew it better than anyone else. One look at Mrs. Holmes and John couldn't have mistaken her for anyone except Sherlock's mother. Thin and willowy, with porcelain fair skin, high cheekbones, ice blue eyes, and a cascade of curly black ringlets, Sherlock was practically her male clone. The man beside her however, must strongly take after his father, the man was huge, easily over two meters tall, maybe even two and a quarter, burly and muscled and looked like he could toss around automobiles if it suited him to do so. Sherlock was considered strikingly beautiful, but Sherringford was classically handsome, the kind that swooning women wrote romance novels about. Sherringford Holmes could be a superhero without any issue. He had wavy sandy brown blond hair and a very strong, ruggedly handsome face with a square jaw and those same sharp eyes as his mother. John would have felt extremely intimidated by this man were it not for the fact that he was smiling warmly, and there was a girl no older than three or four perched upon his hip, dressed head to toe in pale pink and looking like a princess seated on a throne, and a slightly older boy, maybe about seven, holding his free hand and halfway hiding behind the large man.
"Well I see where Sherlock gets that ethereal quality from, your family didn't dabble in gene splicing and human cloning did they?"
Mycroft chuckled.
"Yes he is quite the match to her isn't he?"
"Definitely, and Sherringford, takes after your father?"
"Oh no he's the mirror image of our maternal grandfather, I take after our father the most, though Father's hair was more red than auburn, Sherlock's hair shows some highlights of it when the light is just right."
The door opened and Mycroft stepped out smoothly. John followed a second later, the box of flowers securely in his hand.
"Mycroft! Welcome home darling! Oh it has been much too long."
"Hello Mummy, you're looking absolutely radiant."
Violet Holmes swept Mycroft into her arms and hugged him like she had feared she would never see him again. Sherringford clapped him soundly about the shoulders and pulled him into a one-armed embrace, and the little girl immediately held out her arms to be caught in a half flying/falling maneuver that landed her squarely in Mycroft's arms and planting a kiss on his cheek at the same time. The boy hung back from physical affection, but smiled and waved shyly to his uncle.
"John, this is my mother, Violet Holmes, my eldest brother Sherringford, his son Tosland, and daughter Allyenda. Mother, Sherringford, this is Sherlock's John Watson."
"Oh yes of course! Welcome! It's so good to meet you at last, he's been squirreling you away from us for ages." Violet said with a smile and completely ignoring the hand he was beginning to offer, she wrapped him up into a gentle, floral scented embrace.
"Are you Uncle Mycroft's boyfriend?" The little girl demanded with all the imperiousness she could muster while clinging ever tighter around Mycroft's neck and locking her ankles around his waist. "Because he's MINE."
Mycroft looked absolutely mortified. "Now Ally-"
John chuckled, and having had Mycroft introduce him as Sherlock's well, anything, set him at ease on how to approach this situation. "No I'm not, I'm your Uncle Sherlock's. My name's John, what's yours?"
"Allyenda Marie Elizabeth Diana Eloise Holmes. I'm four. I'm going to be a princess, uncle Mycroft is going to make me one, so I'm going to marry him."
"Ahh I see. Well there are rules about that sort of stuff you know, there always is with the important things like that. To become a real princess, you have to marry a real prince, and Mycroft's not a real prince, and he won't be, unless he marries someone who is already a princess, and then he wouldn't be allowed to marry you to make you a princess at all I'm afraid. Though if he absolutely promised to make you a princess, then he's probably going to introduce you to a few princes when you grow up a bit to see if you fall madly in love with any of them."
"We could have a ball! Like Cinderella!"
Mycroft was shooting him a 'I hate you so VERY much right now, because she's going to win against you, and have me get her a prince filled ball' Look.
"That sounds like a marvelous idea, very smart of you. Though don't rush anything, marrying is a very serious grown up thing to do, and you can't take growing up back once you've gone and done it, so always make sure you are absolutely positive about wanting to do a grown up thing before you go and do it, because you can't take them back, and each one makes you grow up a bit more, until before you know it you are all grown up and there's nothing at all to be done about it. And I'll tell you a secret: almost all grown ups, wish they could be children again for a little while, so you should enjoy it while you can."
Allyenda giggled and held her arms out to him. He darted a quick glance to Sherringford to make sure this was fine before taking the girl with his good arm and balancing her on his hip.
"Are you a prince uncle John?"
"No, I'm a surgeon, do you know what that is?"
She shook her head no.
"It's a kind of doctor. When people have bad things wrong with their insides, I go in and take it out and fix it so that it can't hurt them anymore."
"So you're a good doctor." She said, smiling with wide approval.
"No, he's a great doctor. He saved the life of a very important friend of mine the other day." Mycroft interrupted smoothly and John couldn't help the blush.
"Hey, would you mind helping me with something?" John asked her quite seriously.
"What?"
"Will you help me take the lid off of this box? It's a present for the Lady Violet, take a peek and tell me if you think she'll like it."
"She's my Nan you know." Allyenda stated with much importance.
"Well now I do. What do you think? Is it a good present? Am I safe?"
"They're perfectly wonderful, she'll love them."
"Oh wait, yep looks like they put an extra one in here, they must have known that I was going to be meeting you today too." John took one of the flowers and handed it to the little girl whose eyes lit up in absolute joy as he set her back down on her feet and she dashed off towards her father showing off her treasure.
Mycroft was smirking at him in a most mischievous way. "Careful John, or I will have to tell Sherlock that you are flirting and giving flowers to pretty girls behind his back."
"Considering I am sure both of you also give flowers to the exact same girls, I doubt he would mind." and with that he handed the box over to the Lady Violet. "These are for you, I hope you like them."
"Oh my, Mr. Watson they're lovely, thank you."
"John, please. I don't think formality is necessary, do you?"
"Not at all, and feel free to call me Violet. Come inside and get settled, then we will take tea in the Garden Room. I daresay if I know my boys they have been trying to have you sustain yourself on tea and air alone. Maisy is a wonderful cook, I'll have her bring some sandwiches round, what do you prefer? Our kitchen is stocked as if we were expecting a three year siege any day now."
"I'm really not picky, I like most anything really, something I don't have to rush away from the middle of, I consider a treat."
"I'll have the chefs make a nice selection then, I get bored with just one thing, variety is the spice of life."
John was ushered up to the east wing of the third story, where he had a suite of four rooms all to himself that included a bedroom with a huge wardrobe already filled with clothes in his size and style, though a few were more formal. There was a sitting room with soft squashy couches, armchairs, and a plasma screen TV, an office with a hand carved antique mahogany desk and bookcases, and a bathroom with a garden tub that seemed large enough to comfortably fit four people in it if they were rather fond of each other. There was a double sided wood burning fireplace that serviced both the bedroom and the sitting room, and the sitting room even had a real dumbwaiter that went straight to the kitchens. He started thinking about hidden rooms and secret passageways and all of the mysteries a young Sherlock would have investigated in a house this old and large. His windows overlooked a series of gardens, and off in the distance a ways he could even see a hedge maze garden with a tower folly in the middle of it. He could just imagine Sherlock dressed as a pirate and using the folly as his ship, or the island where he had hidden his treasure. He would have to explore it himself when he got the chance.
Tea was a quiet affair, filled with small talk, and John marveling over the Garden Room, a huge three story glass greenhouse built on its own half of an acre, filled with flowering vines, climbing roses, and about a hundred different varieties of trees and flowers. There was a cluster of flowering fruit trees on a small hill in the middle of the space, a man made water feature that very gently ran water over flat stones to leave the current calm enough that the butterflies wouldn’t be harmed by it. It eventually flowed to fill a pond on the south side that narrowed into a small 'stream' winding through the place, watering all the plants. There were koi in the water, and John was given a small bucket and a scoop to toss pellets of food to them. It was Mrs. Holmes’ favorite place, and also where she kept her more endangered butterflies so they could fly, live, and breed peacefully. Four-hundred butterflies flitted merrily through the place, sipping nectar, tending the flowers, and making one feel as if perhaps they had suddenly found themselves in an enchanted world. There were also several hummingbird feeders set up, one very close to their table, and John got to enjoy tea while the little living jewels flitted by. He learned that she was a licensed butterfly conservationist, breeding, raising, protecting, and sometimes even releasing over eighty living species of butterfly back into their natural or reclaimed habitats, many of them endangered, a few of them even on the brink of extinction. She was quite passionate about the issue and was raising her grandson Tosland to follow in her footsteps.
Sherringford took John on a tour of the house afterward. The main house they were in had over a hundred rooms not including servants quarters, which were in an outbuilding attached to the back of the house. There were four libraries and three ballrooms, including a grand ballroom, music room, conservatory, dens, and parlors, galleries and drawing rooms. He hadn't even been there a day and he already knew it would take months to explore everything here properly without even touching the smaller guest houses nearby or the chapel with housing for a priest or vicar attached as well as the family cemetery. If he was Sherlock, he would have LOVED growing up here. They walked out to a pond with a very large tree beside the water.
“So John, what do you think so far?”
“I think it's a beautiful manor, and I think any child who gets to grow up here is very fortunate indeed, getting to run around and explore to their hearts content with a head full of imagination. It's like it's own private little world.”
“It is, and having grown up here myself, I can tell you it is a very good world, good for the soul, and good for healing the heart. I wish I had known you a little better before trying to talk to you about this, I have to admit it's quite awkward.”
“Ah is this the point where you tell me if I break your brother's heart you will inflict gross personal harm on me?”
Sherringford chuckled. “No, quite the contrary in fact. I know Sherlock better than most people, he doesn't get serious about people lightly, or take their feelings or opinions into account most times, so for him to actively do so with you, tells me more about how much he cares about you than anything else could. The fact he chose you to entrust with his heart tells me he thought long and hard about every angle and pathway and outcome, more than I can probably even imagine. My brother never does anything lightly, no matter how ridiculous or dangerous it may seem at the time, he always has a reason for doing everything, otherwise it's pointless to him and he doesn't bother doing it. I'm sure you've noticed.”
John smiled. “Several times, yes.”
“The Holmes personality is extremely analytical like that, it's based entirely on logic and rational thinking, not letting emotion come into play very much, if at all. Our father was a very cold man, not cruel, at least not intentionally, but he was ruthless in business, and so sharp and assessing I used to believe his eyes could cut you to your soul, and it was not a painless cut. Our grandfather was the same. You think Sherlock has sharp eyes, they are a kittens' when compared to our fathers' or grandfathers', in fact the trait has been a Holmes family point of pride for more generations then I can readily name. It was cultured in our family line like some would cultivate a rare orchid. Needless to say I was a great disappointment to our father, my personality takes much after mothers' side of the family, though I am very shrewd in business, he considered my eyes to be far too soft. Mycroft has them, and so does Sherlock, the trait honed itself sharper with each child our mother had. While Mycroft is more cunning, he can at least still function in society and understand people, Sherlock wasn't so lucky. He is a Holmes down to his soul, and that has always been very problematic for him in realizing that not only do his actions have consequences, but that those consequences can be more than physical. Emotions are very hard for Sherlock to understand or deal with, at least when they're his own. While he's a genius in other areas, he's pretty much a child emotionally. So when he does things that hurt people emotionally, he's usually not aware of it.”
“Yes I've noticed.”
“See that broken part there in the tree? There used to be a branch that hung out over the water, Sherlock climbed all the way out there once when he was little, alone, after dark, in the middle of winter of course, and the branch broke and he fell through the thin ice. He nearly died, would have if a grounds keeper hadn't been passing by and seen it and managed to pull him out. We might not have found his body until spring, that night was well below freezing and it had started snowing heavily. We would have never even known where to look once the hole froze back over, because no one had known where he'd gone. As you can imagine our mother was beside herself when he was brought back badly hurt and hypothermic, and Sherlock couldn't understand why she was upset and crying, because she wasn't the one with the broken bones.”
“Your poor mother.”
“Yes, quite. Turns out he'd been going for a birds' nest, he was quite livid over the fact it had not survived the fall intact.”
“That sounds very like him. So what's the point? You aren't telling me all this just to reminisce on your youngest brother. There's something else.”
Sherringford laughed. “He's taught you well. I'm afraid there's no way to say this without sounding tactless.”
“I live with Sherlock, tactless is what I'm used to.”
“Very well, tactless it is. Did you know that Sherlock is trained in four different types of martial arts, as well as street fighting and boxing? He started as a way to defend himself from bullies and then got extremely interested in different forms for awhile. He's masterful at it, as he is with anything that catches his attention and he decides to pursue. He's won national championships. Wouldn't you say it's curious then when he has no qualms about taking out an opponent until they are broken or unconscious, that he doesn't raise a finger to stop you when you supposedly hurt him? He's not afraid of you, he could break you like a twig and he knows it, though it looks like you didn't. He repeatedly took down his instructor when he was twelve. I doubt you would give him much trouble, no matter how well they trained you in the army. So why then doesn't he stop you, if you are hurting him? He's not the type to get so emotionally dependent he'll let you have your way so you'll stay with him, he's not afraid of being alone, he's not afraid of standing up for himself no matter who it offends, and he's not afraid of you. The only logical answer left then, the only thing Sherlock would do without thinking, is that he lets you do it, or more accurately, he wants you to do it.
Sherlock is no ones punching bag, he always has to be in control of every situation even when it seems like he isn't. You probably know this better than most. You aren't abusing him John, for whatever reason he’s got going on in that head of his, Sherlock has been goading you into your actions and you've been reacting exactly how he wants you to, probably from the very start. I couldn't tell you if it's for an experiment or if it's something he likes, all I know is that things aren't what they seem. He's the one who has been hurting you, though as I said before, it’s likely he doesn't understand it. I would tell you not to be mad at him, but I know I was pretty upset when I found out. It's why we had you brought here, we wanted to give you some time away from him in a safe place, to tell you the truth, and to let you have some time to process things before taking action. Mycroft thinks very highly of you, enough to bring you here, which I have never known him to do before.”
Whatever reaction Sherringford had been expecting from John, he doesn't get it. John's fists clench momentarily and he takes a few deep breaths before shaking his head in what appears to be self depreciating amusement, relaxes his shoulders and his fists and finally sighs heavily, closing his eyes for a moment before releasing his clenched fist.
“Where is Mycroft now? He has my mobile held hostage and I would really like it back.”
“Knowing him, Crestfield Point. It's his Lair away from home. I have to admit you are taking this better than I had hoped.”
John chuckles, a weary look on his face as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, well awhile ago your brother thought he intentionally exposed me to a psychotropic drug that affected the primal fear centers of the brain, then locked me in a lab and proceeded to do everything in his power to scare me to death all while he watched me on camera. The thing is I actually had been exposed to the drug without your brother's help, so I really was going out of my mind with fear. He was only upset over the fact I was pissed as hell when I found out about it. I don't really put much of anything past Sherlock these days, however he is definitely going to get a piece of my mind the next time I talk to him. Where is Mycroft again?”
Sherringford chuckled and put his arm around Johns' shoulders. “Come on, I'll show you.” he says and starts leading John towards where Mycroft is most likely staying.
Sherlock would have known better, but it wasn't Sherringford's fault, he didn't know John very well yet, and certainly not his tells. Sherlock knows that John is his most angry and deadly when he goes calm, especially when under stress. Mycroft would have known too, but he hadn't been there to observe the change. So neither brother is expecting it when John, calm and collected after politely requesting and getting his mobile back, punches Mycroft square in the nose at full strength with a very satisfying crunch that leaves the British Government sprawled out on the floor, broken nose absolutely gushing blood. He's very much tempted to follow him to the floor and keep pounding Mycroft into the ground, but that would undoubtedly result in Sherringford getting involved and John actually likes the man, not to mention that their mother was an absolutely lovely woman, and killing one or two of her children would most likely put a damper on her affections towards him. So he made the one punch really count.
“You completely manipulative BASTARD, you fucking knew ! Sherlock I expect to act with the emotional capacity of a two year old, but you fucking know better! You let me believe for HOW long that I was hurting him, DESTROYING him and you let me keep believing it ! The only way you could have possibly known about what was going on is because you did put cameras and bugs in the flat again and were afraid of the fallout because you know how much that pisses me off! How many of your little kidnapping update meetings have I gone to since it started and all it would have taken is two fucking seconds out of your day to tell me that Sherlock was fucking with my head, and I could have fixed it? Instead you played along! You kidnapped me from the flat at fucking gunpoint with thugs and nearly slit my throat for hurting him, when the whole time you knew the truth and even then you Didn't. Fucking. Tell. Me. Why? For blackmail so you could keep playing your little head games? Because you weren't man enough to tell me yourself, so I had to hear about it from an almost complete stranger? If I didn't respect your mother and elder brother so much I would give you a whole lot more than a busted nose, something you would most likely never fully recover from, and you would fucking deserve it. Now you will tell me why you did it, and if you are REALLY convincing about it, you just might talk me out of hitting you again, but you had better be damn convincing.”
For sitting on the floor bleeding profusely into a pocket handkerchief, Mycroft was surprisingly calm and articulate.
“The abduction was mostly to wake Sherlock up even more to the seriousness of consequences, because he doesn't think things through, and he's supposed to care about you more than anyone else. I needed to remind him that if he's careless, that it's not just himself he has to worry about anymore. If he takes those kind of risks and missteps, especially without informing you of what he's doing so you can accurately judge and prepare, then he could lose a lot more than himself, he could lose you due to his own foolishness and he'd only have himself to blame.”
“Aside from the fact that isn't your fucking call to make, as well as none of your business, why did you leave me in the dark? Why did you nearly slit my throat when you knew the truth?”
“You were feeling guilty, you wanted to be punished for your sins, and self chastisement didn't seem to be doing it for you, so I tried to accommodate. That way you wouldn't be pitying yourself when you found out the truth, and you respond better to bad news when you have a level head.”
Wrong. Thing. To say. John's fists clenched, and he began making a move towards Mycroft, but this time Sherringford was ready, having taken John's previous threat to heart. He pressed a very restraining hand across John's chest, and purposefully stepped forward, placing himself between John and Mycroft before offering a hand to help his younger brother up from the floor. Mycroft had barely gotten his feet under him before Sherringford landed a forceful but controlled punch to Mycroft's midsection, enough to wind him, but not enough to cause true damage. He then sat Mycroft back into his chair so the man could try and recover a bit. He had obviously knocked the wind out of him good and proper.
“Mike, how many times have I told you? 'Manipulation bad, Communication good'. It's not that hard of a concept. You don't have to manipulate the entire world and everything in it in order for things to run smoothly. Yes it's good that John knows the truth now and can fix things, but their relationship is none of your business and is not yours to meddle with. Once you can breathe again, the first thing you are doing is getting the cameras out of their flat and you are going to put it in notarized and witnessed writing that you are never going to do it again. The second thing you are going to do is come up with a way to sincerely apologize to John AND Sherlock, and then you will have two hours to make the arrangements needed for the world to run without you for the rest of your stay before turning over every last one of your electronics because you will not be needing them. You're going on a technology blackout and you will comply quietly or I will be forced to inform Mummy of the entire truth of the matter, and we both know you don't want that. Clear?”
“Crystal.”
“Wonderful, now it looks like you went and broke your nose, how fortunate that we have a skilled doctor on hand who can fix it for you while I get some flannels, pain killers, gauze, and ice.”
After John had set Mycroft's nose (though not very gently) and the man was sporting a nose splint and an ice pack because the Holmes' first aid kit really did have everything one could need, John started texting with Sherlock.

I punched Mycroft, broke his nose.
Your brother punched him and took away his toys.
I like Sherringford. :) --JW
He deserved it, I still might punch him too.
Sherringford is a good man, ask him to show you my folly in the hedge maze,
the key is under the window seat of my old room. I think you'll like it.-- SH
You and I have a LOT to talk about,
and I'm not coming back to Baker Street until we have.--JW
I understand. For what it's worth, I'm sorry John. --SH
Yeah, I know.
You're going to be a lot sorrier if you don't finish up soon and get down here.
Your mother is a charming woman who wants to keep me.
I might let her, this place is beautiful. Case updates?-- JW
Serial killer was recreating an event, all victims were in 'costume'. Examining the bodies now. --SH
You're texting me while you are working?
Who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?--JW
I have no issue replying to something important,
and you are important to me John, as much as the work is. --SH
I would say I want that in writing, but I just got my wish.
Call Lestrade instead of chasing them down.
You can be all kinds of clever without risking your own neck.
Let NSY earn their damn paychecks for once. --JW
I'll think about it.--SH
That wasn't a request.
Figure things out but do NOT take any risks.
I have a bad feeling, the kind I learned
to listen to in my service days.
Besides, you have somewhere very
important to be once this case wraps, don't you? --JW
That I do. I will call you tonight.--SH
Be safe. Please.--JW
Yes John. Bodies.--SH
Enjoy the morgue. --JW

John’s gut feeling proved correct. Once Sherlock found the pattern in other cases it was easy to track down the original victims associates, and his motives. The mass murderer turned out to be Devin Longsworth, age 21. He was an insulin dependent diabetic man whose looks had deteriorated vastly and rapidly in his very early teenage years due to the sudden onset of the disease in an episode which nearly killed him when he was 13. Afterwards, his inability and unwillingness to manage it properly led to depression, extreme weight gain, permanently discolored his skin to a dark reddish purple at the cheeks, wrists, hands, and lower legs, going blind in one eye, and him needing to have some of his fingers and toes amputated. And to top it all off the hormones of puberty gave him severe acne which scarred him with deep pock marks. He had gone from being a popular kid having a promising career in modeling, to being the child who was excessively bullied in school in less than a year.
He had more than doubled in body weight before he developed anorexia, and then lost weight so fast that his skin hung loose on him everywhere, including his face, arms, and neck, and had nearly died from starving himself to death. His bullies called him The Blob, Leatherface, and Melting Man, emotionally and physically torturing him until his self confidence was utterly destroyed. Even though he managed to get back up to a healthy weight and overcome the anorexia through forced therapy, he was still bullied severely even after changing schools.
Near the end of second form, the girl he’d had a crush on rejected him, she hadn't even been cruel about it, but that hadn't mattered to Devin. It seemed to be the last straw for him and the start of him getting extremely angry at the world and starting his murderous ways. He relentlessly stalked and killed each of the bullies, killing them with his insulin, so they would have a small taste of what it felt like for him. But they all just looked like accidental deaths. He had apparently enjoyed the feeling of power it gave him and from there on he branched out to anyone he had held a grudge against. His parents, his family, his teachers, his coworkers, his bosses, his therapists. After they were gone he had picked new victims that reminded him of them and he’d killed versions of them several times over, a few, like his bullies, as many as ten times.
Amanda Addlesby was the lynchpin like Sherlock had thought. She had been the girl who had rejected Devin, and was supposed to be away in Italy for a month, which is why she hadn’t been reported missing. Devin had two enforcers that he had significant amounts of blackmail on to make them do the kidnappings for him. He had blindfolded everyone with silk blindfolds so they didn’t even see each other until they were so weak or out of their minds with drugs that they had just torn into each other instead of joining together and overpowering their captors. He had also prevented the escape of his victims by binding them with long swaths of fabric that hung from the ceiling, similar to aerial silks that were grommeted and held together with locks. The fabric covered such wide areas of the victims, that not only did it keep them immobile, but it also didn’t leave noticeable binding marks anywhere. With the final person on his original list finally in his grasp, Devin killed all of his tormentors one final time with her at the center of it, the catalyst for what he believed was where his life had gone wrong.
It was special forces they sent in after him though, and thank goodness for that. Because once the police had Devin cornered, he had sprayed hydrochloric acid at the officers from a large air pressurized ‘super soaker’ style water gun, which had burned several officers severely. As they were dealing with that he had then thrown down several dozen water balloons which were filled with either bleach or ammonia, forming deadly chloramine gas as they broke and combined with each other. That allowed him time to give himself a huge overdose cocktail of insulin and morphine before they could reach him and bring him into custody. Several officers were still in hospital with severe acid burns and toxic gas inhalation, one was blinded for life. Lestrade and his team were thankfully not involved.
Sherlock also managed to stay well out of it, not having wanted to make John any angrier at him. By the time the police were raiding Devin’s hideout, Sherlock was more than halfway to his family’s estate. John gave Sherlock exactly one day to soothe his mother, spoil his niece, and to also punch Mycroft, before they finally sat down to have a lengthy and serious talk.
“You were fucking with my head, I get that, but the fact remains that there's something there inside of me for you to fuck around with, something dark and vicious that I can't control, and that is perfectly capable and willing to hurt the people I care about most, and I am not okay with that. I can't trust myself with you, and if I took that risk and you wound up hurt again, hurt because of me, it would destroy me Sherlock, that much I can promise you.
But I can't leave you either, I can't. I'm not strong enough. You have become as necessary as AIR to me and I can't just choose to stop breathing. I'm the worst kind of addict, and you're my fix, my drug of choice. So you have to be the one to end it Sherlock, because I never will, and I don't know how to protect you from that dark thing inside of me. So I am begging you to please, leave me and walk away and never look back, because if you don't, if you stay, I'm going to live in constant fear of hurting you, and that one day I will snap, and then I will eat a bullet to neutralize the threat, and I really don't want to make you see that, so please, just leave, let me save you one final time okay?”
“No.”
“Sherlock-”
“No John. You think you are a threat to me because I made you think you were a threat to me. You could no sooner hurt me of your own free will than you could intentionally kill a kitten with your bare hands. Any time you have ever directly laid a hand on me it was due to the fact I directly provoked you into taking that specific action, otherwise it is completely beyond your comprehension to harm me in any way. I first realized it when we were dealing with Irene Adler and I asked you to hit me. You couldn't even imagine doing it until I overrode your higher thought processes in order to get the reaction I wanted. I practiced with it, experimented on you until I knew exactly how to provoke any reaction out of you that I wanted.”
“Why did you want me to react like that anyway? Why did you want me to hit you, hurt you? I don't get it, do you like being hit? Is that a thing for you?”
“No John, that wasn't the reaction I was going for, that was the catalyst, the trigger, the reaction I was going for happened after you had calmed down, when you were dealing with the fallout. The first time I was successful in making you get rough during sex, you did something unexpected afterwards, I was trying to recreate the results.”
“What? Why didn't you just ask? Why would you- Sherlock, I don't understand. What did I do?”
“You aroused me. But it wasn't during a sexual moment. You gave me a sponge bath and it was the most erotic thing I can ever remember experiencing with you, and I needed to know if it was the exact circumstances, or that I was injured and being tended to by the one who had done it, or if it was the act itself, or the act itself performed by you, which had caused that effect.”
“You might just have a thing for sponge baths.”
“No, I have since had one by both a male and a female nurse for comparison, and it did nothing for me.” Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.
“Of course you did.” John took a couple of very deep breaths and then accepted that this really was his life. “Get undressed and lay down.”
“What?”
“Just do it Sherlock. I forgive you, but I want your word, that from now on, if you like something we do, you will just ask me to do it again. No more manipulations. I am your partner, not your bloody science experiment. Understand?”
“I promise. And yes, I understand.”
“Good. Why you like it and what caused you to like it don’t matter. The fact that you liked it is what is important, alright?”
“Alright.”

Sherlock got undressed while John fetched the needed supplies. Sherlock was surprised to find himself shaking a bit as John soaked the soft sponge in the basin of hot, soapy water, squeezed it out, and began gently washing him down slowly. Every touch seemed electrified, lighting up his nerves and hitching his breath. This was all definitely John’s doing somehow.
Up and down over his arms, the tender swipes leaving slightly damp and scented areas in their wake that chilled quickly in the air, raising his skin in gooseflesh. The intimacy of John washing each of his hands tenderly one by one, then kissing the pads of each finger after they were dried, had Sherlock as hard as a rock.
Up his neck, over his face, across his chest and then down his back, once with the soapy water, then the sponge without it, a light patting dry, and John’s lips following tenderly afterwards, gently, worshipfully kissing Sherlock's skin. Nothing rough or harsh was present in a single touch. Sherlock could hardly breathe, he had no idea how to even name what he was feeling. It was more than intimate, more than sexual, just MORE every way around.
John worked his way down over Sherlock’s abs and then each individual leg slowly, as though he had all the time in the world to do so and that Sherlock wasn’t shattering into a million pieces simply from being touched like that.
“J-John!”
“Shhhh, it’s alright. You’re alright Sherlock. It feels good, doesn’t it? I think I’ve figured out what it is you like so much about this. I can read you like a book right now. It’s not just the intimacy or the attention, it’s the proof of what I feel for you laid out in a way that usually isn’t seen. You’ve always liked it when I get protective, or charge after where you lead, or tell you how brilliant you are, but this, it’s a whole different level isn’t it? You don’t have to be brilliant, or clever, or have an exciting mystery to solve to keep my attention. You just have to lay there quietly, not needing to do anything more than accept what I’m doing, and I’ll just take my time, letting my eyes and fingers and lips linger on you for as long as I can. What you enjoy is being cherished and taken care of by someone you love so much. Right, Sherlock?”
One swipe, just one single swipe of the damp sponge going up and over Sherlock’s hard and flushed cock, with John’s warm breath only inches behind it gently murmuring those words against his skin was all it took. Sherlock was undone, gripping the sheets and crying out as he came, hips thrusting up into the air, John kissing the soft and tender part of Sherlock’s thigh as he rode out the orgasm.
John smiled as he cleaned up Sherlock while the man caught his breath, lightly chiding him for making such a mess of himself after John had just cleaned him up so thoroughly. He cuddled up behind Sherlock, letting the taller man be the little spoon, and just let Sherlock bask in the feeling of being held and cared for.
They still had several dozen things to discuss, but it could wait until later. John pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder as the detective dozed off. As he was laying there John realized that they aren't really two people anymore. At some point when he wasn't looking, the man before him magicked them into one entity known as Sherlock&John, and he has no idea how to undo that without destroying them both. He doesn’t even think he wants to. Which means they will just have to keep on working out the snags as they come up, no matter how large or small. But for now at least, the case is solved, they have reached an understanding, they can rest in the country for awhile, he’ll have Sherlock show him the garden folly in the morning, and once they are on their way back to London, they will stop in Chelmsford and have dinner with Mark and his wife and let the man tell embarrassing stories about them from the Army so that Sherlock will laugh and they feel like any other normal couple on a double date with friends. They will just take things one day at a time, but for now John's world has found some semblance of balance in it again, and for that, he's grateful.
The End

A/N: I did my best to wrap up all of the plot lines for this story. I wish I had gotten to explore certain aspects of it a bit deeper, but the plot bunny just wasn't having it. But I think that you would rather have a finished as I can make it story instead a forever unfinished one. I truly loved this prompt. Thank you so much to Axelle for originally asking for it. I hope that I at least made it worth the wait.
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Guilty Pleasures