Thanks for reading!

Comfort was all John knew as his eyes opened to greet Sunday morning with a playful smile on his lips. His body was relaxed, his left arm draped over Sherlock at the waistband of his boxer shorts and his right up in Sherlock's hair in almost the exact position they'd fallen asleep, post-coital exhaustion having been a long time coming but definitely appreciated. He twirled the fingers of his right hand, stretching out a particularly buoyant curl on Sherlock's head and then let it go, watching it coil back up and rest in its habitual silky, natural perm on the brunette's crown. Pushing his chin forwards, John placed a soft kiss on Sherlock's forehead with gentle precision, aiming for not waking the still-sleeping detective, but his efforts were in vain as sleet grey eyes glanced up at him as he pulled his head back to its comfortable spot on the pillow.

Smiling without teeth, his face still sleepy and soft, John's brows rose happily, "Good morning," he whispered, fingers of his left hand trailing tenderly up and down Sherlock's spine.

Sherlock didn't reply, but breathed in and out in a soft, relaxed sigh by way of expression and shuffled his head a little closer to John's. "Sorry about…"

"No, don't even start. It was lovely," John pulled Sherlock closer by dragging his hips in against his own as they lay face to face, Sherlock a little lower down the bed to allow him to nestle his head in the crook of John's neck, against the pillow. His hand rested on Sherlock's bum, even now still unable to get used to the feeling of padding where he'd once felt pliant skin beneath the material of his underwear, but it was Sherlock and it was fine. He buried his nose in Sherlock's curls, smelling the scent of Sherlock below the aftershave and deodorants that was so familiar and comforting.

"Don't want to move," Sherlock said in a moment of sentimentality, his breath warm against John's right shoulder.

"I'm afraid we kind of have to because I need to pee and you need a shower," he smirked and felt a breathy laugh from Sherlock power out of the detective's nose and beat warm against his neck. "Five minutes more, though, yeah?"

Sherlock nodded, curls brushing John's stubbled chin. "Yep," he popped against John's neck, lashes fluttering against the Doctor's skin.

John let his eyes close as Sherlock's hands rested against his chest as he pulled him closer. Comfortable, close, intimate and soft and it was all John needed, all Sherlock seemed to need, to rid themselves for the issues of the day before and come back to being together, being strong for each other and learning to move on. John hoped that Sherlock now understood why what had happened with Sarah had happened at all; John was craving comfort from Sherlock, from anyone, in the place of all he comfort he was giving out to Sherlock. Wordlessly, Sherlock prayed that John understood that he cared, even if he couldn't say it, and that despite the difficulties and changes in the way things were, he loved him as much – if not more – as he ever had.

But relaxing for 'another five minutes' as planned was thwarted with a sharp knock on the front door above them. Sherlock groaned into John's neck and the smile on John's lips was both playful and resigned. "I'll get it," John patted his hand on Sherlock's bum and then dragged himself free of Sherlock's body. "Want to throw yourself in the shower? I'll be two minutes."

Sherlock waved his hand at John in sleepy response as the blonde pulled on yesterday's jeans and a jumper discarded on the end of the bed and padded, bare footed, up the stairs the hallway. Desperate for the loo, he hoped it was cold callers for the ability to send them packing immediately. He unhooked the bolts and locks and slid the latch down before pulling the door back enough to poke his head out. His sleepy face became one holding a deep frown as he met a rather tired looking Lestrade on his doorstep. "Greg," He straightened up, pulling the door open wider to allow the DI in.

"John," he exhaled, biting his lip. "Got a minute, both of you?" he asked, standing awkwardly in the hallway with his hands thrust into his coat pocket.

"Sure," John nodded, frowning deeply, "Take a seat in the dining room I'll just-," he gestured over his shoulder before sprinting down the stairs. "Sherlock?" he called out as he reached the bottom, eyes on Sherlock sitting up on the edge of the bed. "Lestrade's here, he looks pissed off." He bit the corner of his mouth.

Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, tired eyes wide and innocent, and echoed John's frown. "What's he want?"

"No idea," John said, disappearing into the bathroom to take care of business. He appeared a couple of minutes later and watched as Sherlock dressed with his self-mastered efficiency. "Need a hand?"

"No," Sherlock snapped, easing into his dark jeans. The sharp edge to his voice caught John slightly, a stark contrast to the gentle, husky sleepiness they'd had moments ago. He watched awkwardly, standing on the side lines, as Sherlock dressed and moved with a little exertion across into his chair. He was a little breathless, something John knew would ease with physio but daren't say a word, but ultimately triumphant. "What?"

"Nothing," John shook his head, a small smile on his lips. "Ready?" Nodding, Sherlock lead John on, eager to find out why Gregory Lestrade was poking around and on a Sunday of all days. They both knew that it had to be official and it instilled a nervous fluttering in their stomachs as joined the DI in the dining room, John branching off a moment to make tea before they settle uneasily at the dining table with expectant gazes in Lestrade's direction.

"Well?" Sherlock griped, unable to take the silence.

"Your brother's fingerprints were found after another sweep of Northumberland Street," Greg said painfully. "Not just isolated, either, they're everywhere. It took a while to match them; given his status he's entitled to strict security but it's not completely restricted. The results were ran twice," he pushed forwards a folded slip of paper, printed out from the Yard which clearly stated the matches with a picture and details for Mycroft.

"You can't…" John frowned, a nervous smile of disbelief on his lips, "You're not saying he fired the gun?"

"Of course not," Greg snapped in quickly, "We couldn't know that. But his prints are at the scene, Sherlock and unless he was there with you and John prior to our involvement, then he has to be treated as a suspect and he has to be questioned."

John flicked his eyes over the Detective and he could tell he was thinking deeply – knowing Sherlock, John imagined he was stuck between the idea of running from this or tackling it head on himself. He hoped he'd do neither and simply allow Greg and the rest of the team at the Yard to handle it themselves. This was too close to home.

"I don't buy it; Mycroft practically is the British government and he is far from stupid. Had he been there, he'd have been a stickler for ensuring nobody knew about it." Sherlock met Greg's gaze. "Computers lie."

"Not this time, Sherlock." Lestrade shook his head, brows rising. "Your brother was there and I need to know when and why."

"So go and question him," John submitted.

"And have myself throw to the lions, I don't think so. He'll see me sacked, he can do that." Greg huffed, taking the paper back. "I don't know why he was there, if it's to do with the shooting or the initially case, but the fact remains that he was there."

"You want us to talk to him?" John asked, leaning back in his chair at the realisation, shaking his head.

Greg nodded sheepishly, "It'll be official, we'll wire you up, use you as a proper mole not just have you swan in and ask questions. It'll take a day or so to organise, we'll have the team outside-,"

"No," Sherlock shook his head firmly, "I'm not doing it and neither are you," he looked at John. "Your computers are wrong, Lestrade. Mycroft is not involved in this case, not like this, not as a suspect. You've got it wrong."

Greg closed his eyes on a deep exhale, "We haven't got it wrong, Sherlock; he was there." Sherlock dragged away from the table, his jaw firm in anger, and stormed toward the kitchen. Greg found his resolve remained and he was on his feet and behind the detective in seconds. "This is inescapable, Sherlock – your brother is involved in this somewhere along the lines and it needs to be explained. It could be innocent, for God sakes, but we need to rule everything out. If you're not willing to talk to him for us, then fine, I get it he's your brother and that's just pushing it too far. But if you don't, I'll find somebody who will."

"You're looking in the wrong places, Lestrade!" Sherlock's temper clicked, "You're not even looking at the bigger picture. We were there for a reason the night I was shot – it's a terrorism threat, public safety. Why would Mycroft be involved with anything like that?" he shook his head, a sarcastic laugh escaping his chest in a bubble, "God, you never think. Mycroft's job is to protect and serve this country and yet you think he's involved with an attempt to destroy it?"

"Or you," Greg said what he'd been thinking, what John and Sherlock knew he'd been thinking, and tried hard not to regret it.

"Mycroft didn't shoot me," Sherlock's voice was dangerously low, so quiet his anger seemed immense. "He didn't do this; he's not involved in this. If those are his fingerprints there, then there is another reason for them – it's not Mycroft." He shook his head, almost frantic, "You're barking up the wrong tree, as usual, Lestrade. He's not to blame for this and if you'd open your eyes, you'd know it!"

"Tell me then, tell me how you know so I can see it?" Greg asked, crouching down in front of Sherlock, and took him by the shoulders, "Give me a reason why you know and, like always, I'll believe you."

Sherlock stared back at Greg uneasily and shook his head, shifting his arms until Greg let go. "I just know!"

"Yeah well," Greg rose to his feet and rubbed the back of his neck in exasperation, "Even the great Sherlock Holmes just knowing isn't enough. Sorry," he held out both hands.

"He's got a point, Sherlock," John stood beside Greg, hands in his pockets, "How much do you really know your brother?"

"John," Sherlock's creased.

"I'm sorry," John shrugged, "But he has got a point – you don't have any idea what he really does, what he's capable of. I'm not saying he's responsible for the shooting, but can you be sure he wasn't involved in the original case and tried to cover it up? It's possible he was doing a bit of digging himself at Northumberland Street, to work out what happened to you, yeah, but it's just as plausible that he's involved somewhere along the line," he said the last words calmly and slowly, taking in the anger on Sherlock's alabaster face.

"No John, he doesn't have a point," Sherlock spat. "The point is you're looking for somebody to lay the blame on the close this case and earn you your stripes," he turned to Greg, "You're not pinning anything on Mycroft because you can't forge evidence and you cannot make me or anyone else interrogate him; you have no grounds to call him in for questioning nor to send somebody in as some sort of crude honey trap." He growled low at the DI.

"I'm not trying to trap him, Sherlock; his prints are at the scene of a crime and, from the direction of the bullets that put you in this chair, the scene of an attempted murder." He stared at Sherlock with a stern face, "If he's innocent, it'll be clear. If he's not then I want to know what he did, when and why."

Sherlock exhaled heavily through his nose in a sarcastically vicious laugh and shook his head, "You don't get it. Mycroft has the world in his palm, why would he stage a gang of terrorists to cause national damage when he could do it himself and cover it up effortlessly? He can make things disappear – my first two drugs charges disappeared, Lestrade and you know how. He's not stupid enough to leave fingerprints at the flat that's being used by an anonymous ring of terrorists and even less stupid to leave his prints at the scene of an attempted murder – if that's even what it was." He licked his lips, trying to calm but to angry to asses himself. "Mycroft didn't shoot me, he isn't involved with the terrorist ring and he is certainly not stupid so who do you think has got things wrong, Lestrade; Mycroft or Scotland Yard?"

John hissed a breath and let it roll from his tongue slowly. "Look," he held out both hands to push the atmosphere down, "We appreciate you coming here and telling us, really. I'd rather here it from you than Sally or Peter, so thanks. But this is getting out of hand so we need to calm down. Sherlock," he looked at the Detective sadly, "You can't fake fingerprints – he's obviously been there."

"Actually you can," Sherlock shook his head, "Fairly simple process of obtaining somebody's prints off of an item of theirs and transferring the indentations…" he stopped. "Fact is, it is possible and it's a possibility here. I don't trust your lab reports, Lestrade."

"Molly," John licked his lips, "Can we run the prints with her? You trust her, Sherlock?"

Greg's face folded, "What? Look I don't have time for arsing around with a pathologist at the hospital to satisfy your anger." He thrust his hand toward Sherlock. "And I don't even know how sophisticated the equipment is at the hospital, can they even run a check on prints?"

"We could try?" John shrugged, "Look," he sighed, "I'm just trying to get a balance. I trust your word, Greg, you know I do, but look at him – he's practically vibrating and he's never trust your forensic team. Give us a day, two at the most, let us take the evidence to Molly Hooper – if it doesn't come up different, if there's no way of doing it we'll give up, we'll trust your word." Sherlock scoffed but John stared at him sharply. "Greg, please?"

Sighing, Greg shook his head with eyes closed tightly, "Two days, maximum." He said firmly, pointing a finger at John, then turned to Sherlock. "No tampering, no hiding evidence. Clear?"

Sherlock nodded, "Thank you." He said, softer than either John or Greg had expected, wholly sincerely.

It felt good to Sherlock to be in a hospital and not be there as a patient. The past month had been full of hospital visits, none of which filled him with determination and the thrill of a case like this one did, despite it being so close to the bone he could almost feel it grate against him. He led John through the maze of corridors and navy doors until they reached what was, to all intents and purposes, Molly's office when not slicing bodies in two. It was here that Sherlock faltered a little and John didn't miss it.

"You OK?" he asked, placing his hand on Sherlock's shoulder softly. The stop he came to was so sudden that the bag on the back of Sherlock's chair rocked with a scuff against the back of the seat, fabric on fabric as it swung to a stop. "Sherlock?"

"Fine," Sherlock nodded, swallowing so thickly it rocked his Adam's apple more slowly than John had ever witness of the Detective.

"We don't have to do this, you don't have to I mean, I can go in there and talk to her." John gestured to the closed door of the small, boxy room.

"I'm fine John, leave me alone." Sherlock rolled back his shoulders until John moved his hand, holding up both palms defensively.

"Fine, after you." He nodded toward the door before leaning forwards to knock it gently.

There was shuffling inside, followed by a sweet-voice muttering expletives, before a feminine clearing of the throat, "Yep?" Molly called out and John pushed down the handle, pushing the door open with his shoulder and holding it wedged to give Sherlock a wide enough access into the room.

"Hey, Molly," John said gently as the small features on Molly's face stretched wide in delighted shock, looking to John as though she were unsure whether to stare lovingly and tearfully at Sherlock or to grin cheekily in John's general direction and then begin to rabbit on nervously with a stream of love and hugs and plenty of 'I hope you're doing well' or 'nice wheels'. "Molly?" John frowned, waving his hand in her face.

"I think she's going to fall down." Sherlock said with such seriousness behind the joke it was almost conceivable.

"Wow," Molly smiled brightly, a nervous hand reaching up to fix her hair that looked just fine as it was, pulled back from her face. "Goodness," She breathed out anxiously.

"It's good to see you, Molly." John said with a smile.

"Good to see you," She echoed, point to them both with open arms. "You look so well," She turned on Sherlock, "It's good to see you…moving about," She babbled, "Nice wheels." Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment in time with Sherlock's sigh and eye-roll whilst John found himself unable to hide his mirth.

His teeth bore in a giggling smile, John reached out and touched her arm as she shook nervously, "It's fine, Molly. Sit down. We're actually here to ask a favour."

Explaining in as much detail as possible without delving too deeply, John and Sherlock relayed what they needed from Molly with gentle voices and coaxing smiles. It was not necessary, Molly was willing to offer up as much help as Sherlock would need and if it helped John in the meantime then that was double the good karma, right? Clued up on what they needed from her by way of assistance, she guided them out of the office and toward the lab with a spring in her step. It had been a month since Sherlock had been here, longer really as his cases had kept him out of Bart's before the shooting, and she was walking on air to have him back here. She didn't patronising by showing him the way around a hospital he knew like the back of his hand, but it did cross her mind quite profoundly as to how, exactly, he was going to work around the rather high workstations.

The lab was dark but for a few glowing lights on machines that John had never really grasped the use of until Molly reached around to the wall beside the door and flicked on the over-head fluorescents. With an electrical buzz and a flicker, the room became awash with clinical light that, given time, would see all three of them fighting off a headache.

"I can run the prints through if you want…if you can't…" Molly fumbled, "…with it being…" she raised her arms up. "Oh, bugger." She rolled her eyes, her awkwardness unmissable.

Handing over the relevant documentation they'd obtained from Lestrade before heading to the hospital, John gave Molly a reassuring smile, "Thanks, that'd be great."

"I'm just…" Sherlock thumbed back toward the door, "I'll be back in a minute,"

John frowned but nodded, "Here-," he grabbed the door for Sherlock, letting him out without a glitch. "You've got your phone on you, right?"

"Yeah – text me if you need me. I've just got something I need to do." He offered a small smile of sorts to John as he disappeared down the corridor.

John let the door close and turned back to Molly with a brief smile. He hadn't known her long but wasn't naïve, he could tell where her affections and loyalties lay and he could also tell that she was somebody he could trust. Arms folded, he walked across the lab to her, standing back enough to give her space, and watched her work with a level of awe in his expression.

When she spoke first, a few moments later, John was somewhat surprised to hear more confidence and professionalism in her voice in the wake of Sherlock's absence. It seemed she really did love the Detective, turning into a pile of teenage goo in his presence and yet regaining her perfect, womanly composure when he wasn't around. "How is he?" she asked, glancing up momentarily from her work.

"Sherlock?" John rubbed his stubbled chin, "Doing better than I expected."

"He looks well," She smiled, looking back down again.

"Most of the time," John replied, breathily, wondering why answering her questions was so easy.

Pushing her hair from her eye with her wrist, Molly looked back up and directly at John again, "He looks sad, though. Like he's searching for something he knows won't come up. Maybe it's the case," she said softly, "Or maybe it's his old-self?"

Smiling sadly, John nodded, "Maybe,"

"And for what it's worth, if the prints come back a match through this run-through, I'm with Sherlock – I only met his brother once but I don't think he'd ever do a thing to put Sherlock in harm's way. Mr Holmes looks icy and steeled but he's not; you can't have grown up with a baby brother and not feel some warmth." She said innocently, eyes going back to her work and lips never parting again.

Molly's work took a lot longer than John had anticipated. He stood, loitering around her, flopped into a stool, fiddled with the internet settings on his phone, toyed with the idea of calling Sarah, sent a text to Sherlock (Where are you? What are you doing? Do you need me?) and then returned his eyes to Molly as she tutted and sucked at her teeth in concentration.

"We're really grateful for this, Molly." He said, quietly. "Whatever the results, I know that Sherlock will better trust your word than anything that comes up at the hands of Anderson," he sniffed.

"Anything to help," Molly said, distance in her voice as she concentrated on her work.

"Can I ask a bit of a personal question?" John pressed, licking his lips. It caught Molly's attention and she looked up, eyes narrowed and lips pursed.

"OK," She nodded feebly.

Blinking, John sighed. "If you were me, in my shoes right now, what would you do?"

Molly's mouth twitched in the left corner before she replied, hands against the workstation to steady herself. "In regards to Sherlock?" she checked, receiving a small nod from John. "I'd do whatever it took to make him not be sad anymore. I would make him drop the investigation, and the police, make them leave it, because I wouldn't want to know and I wouldn't want him to know if it came to it that his brother was somehow involved. I'd probably mollycoddle him too much and get on his nerves which is where you're a better man than me," she smirked, eyes clouded. "But ultimately I think I'd love him more than I ever did because I knew he needed me more than he ever did, despite his capacity for never showing it." When she stopped talking, John noticed her eyes had misted up and tears were shining in her lashes. She inhaled sadly and then shrugged. "But what would I know?" she asked, "I'm a pathologist who's boyfriends are few and far between. The only person I ever loved has never loved me back and could never love me back so I could never be in your shoes, John and I could never presume to know what it's like to be in Sherlock's."

John watched her carefully, feeling bad for projecting his own uncertainty onto the poor woman. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to…" he held out his hand as she walked away from the desk.

"I'm going for coffee, can I get you anything?" she asked, robotically.

John kicked himself, "No, thank you. Molly, I didn't mean to-,"

"You didn't. I got a…thing…in my eye; it's fine. Coffee," she pointed to the door. "I'll be back in a minute."

The door closed behind Molly and left John feeling hideous. He should have known asking Molly for impartial advice in a moment of weakness was a bad idea – her loyalties most definitely lay with Sherlock and it was impossible to make her understand him, even more difficult considering she didn't know what had passed between him and the detective in the past few days. Resting his elbows on the workstation before him, he captured his head in his hands.

He waited in near silence for Molly's return, listening to the whirring of machines around him that, in all honesty, he had no idea what their purpose was. Part of him hoped the results would return and prove Lestrade wrong but the bigger part of him told him he could rely on Lestrade and his team almost fully and that there had been no mistakes made. He was dreading Sherlock's face, the bristling anger that was bound to consume the Detective, and most of all he was dreading what would follow. He reached into his pocket for his phone, sending another text to Sherlock in an attempt to work out where, exactly, he had gone and why it was taking him the best part of the last forty minutes.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 619