This chapter HAS been proof read but you're likely to find tiddly mistakes, so I apologise.

Let me know what you think, guys and THANK YOU, THANK YOU for sticking around :)

(and if you're interested, I changed my Tumblr. I am now "ican-icant"

The restaurant, as was typical of a Sunday mid-afternoon, was quiet but paced and Sherlock and John were welcomed in with a warm, graceful smile and an invitation to anything they wanted on the house. It was almost something they expected now, but it was never something they forgot the sentiment of – Angelo was grateful and John understood that. Still, the benefit of a free meal and a couple of drinks was something that always raised a smile.

Sherlock sat in something close to silence, usual when he was thinking deeply, and prodded his fork at a plate of cooling pasta, his eyes unfocused as he stared into space. Pushing a forkful of green beans into his mouth, John took a sip from his wine glass then purposefully clinked the base of it off Sherlock's water glass. Blinking, Sherlock looked up with a frown. "Penny for them," John smiled.

Sherlock set down his fork and reached for the water, taking a shallow mouthful. He swallowed as he shook his head, "Nothing I can really make sense of yet." He admitted. "Nice?" he nodded at John's plate.

"So far," John replied with a cheeky smile. "Yours, though I don't think I've seen you eat a bite."

"I did," Sherlock insisted. "It's good."

"You need to eat, Sherlock." John said carefully, not wanting to spoil the soft atmosphere.

"I am eating," Sherlock dug his fork into a shell of pasta and popped it into his mouth. "See." He spoke with the small piece shoved into his cheek. "Nice."

John rolled his eyes, smiling at the petulance and nodded his head as if to allow Sherlock away with his pettiness. "I was thinking in the taxi over," he began, covering his hand to his mouth as he spoke around a mouthful of food, "About doing physio at home."

"Um huh," Sherlock nodded, pushing another forkful of pasta into his mouth.

"We could set up one of the rooms upstairs as kind of a gym-thing." He suggested and held out his hand as Sherlock frowned, about to protest. "We could get a stair-lift installed, just hook it up on the main stairs and use one of the bedrooms. We could get it all set out – a bed, weights, hoist, mats, and if you get to it or what to try, we could get bars. I'm just thinking it's a room then we don't need to pack away like we shift your frames out or whatever; if it's constantly set up for use, there's no excuse for abandoning doing it every day. I mean initially we could start downstairs, you could lie on the floor on the duvet or something and I can work your legs, that'd be fine, and you can sit in your chair to lift weights for your arm strength. If you wanted, you could, I mean, you don't have to…"

"You're rambling." Sherlock licked his lips with a sleepy smile. "You're the doctor," he stated, "You're my doctor and only a fool argues with his doctor."

"You argue with me all the time!" John swatted his hand toward Sherlock and the pair smiled. "This is good," John's tone softened, "This," he waved his hand between them, "Us, settling down, getting something back. I'm so proud of you – the odds have been stacked against you and you are soaring so high that I can't help but love you more."

"John…" Sherlock eyes flickered.

"I mean it and I want to say it," John reached across the table, touching Sherlock's hand. "You've learned so much, changed so much; you're stronger than I ever imagined you or I could ever be and I am, Sherlock; I am so proud of you. And now on top of your own issues, you're still working for Greg and worrying about him."

"Nobody else worries about Greg, not since the divorce, outside of work he doesn't have anyone but us to watch his back." Sherlock admitted, sentimentality creeping in a little.

"If your theory is right, about Mycroft and the shooting, will you tell Greg?" John asked, sipping his wine.

Sherlock frowned and shook his head, his mouth pulled downward. "Why would I want to do that? He'd be consumed with guilt and he shouldn't be. Moan as I do about Scotland Yard, Lestrade's been something to me that a father would be so a son. He's helped me through a lot, before you came along and since, I don't want him to hurt."

John's heart pounded in his chest at the gentleness of Sherlock's words. "I hoped you'd say that." He bit his bottom lip. He took a deep breath, the sighing inhale changing the atmosphere. Pushing back his chair, John rose to his feet. "Loo," he thumbed over his shoulder, "Won't be a minute."

Sherlock nodded with a small smile as John walked away. He placed his knife and fork across his half-prodded meal and picked up his water glass. He took a long mouthful, feeling a little overwhelmed by the emotional turn in their conversation. He glanced around him at the couples and a family in the corner of the restaurant, smiling as the little girl sitting beside her Daddy grinned at him brightly.

"Daddy, he's got a chair like Aunty Sarah!" She tugged at her father's sleeve enthusiastically.

Her father looked across at Sherlock, offering an expression that the detective interpreted as sympathetic, and shushed his daughter abruptly, "Don't stare, Stacey." He swatted her hand and tapped the table beside her plate, "Eat up."

Sherlock averted his eyes, watching as Angelo walked around behind the bar and offered Sherlock the exact same look that Stacey's father had. He felt heart beat quicken and couldn't decide if it were an approaching panic attack or just anger toward the eyes. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath and thanked heaven for the distraction when his phone chimed with a text message in his pocket. He reached down, easing the device from his thigh pocket and examined the screen.

Well? I take it there's no difference in what I told you and what Molly told you? In fact I know there isn't because I've already spoken to Molly. I'm sorry Sherlock but we're going to have to question your brother. – Greg.

Sherlock's jaw jutted stubbornly, his teeth gritting together, the bottom jaw giving into its slight underbite at the expression. He breathed in through his nose and out again, sharply. He looked up as John approached and the Doctor immediately read the disgruntled expression. "Sherlock?" he questioned, eyebrows up his forehead.

"Lestrade wants to question Mycroft; he talked to Molly and she told him the results were the same." Sherlock thrust his phone at John and then unhooked the brakes from his chair. "We need to stop him; I need more time, John. I need more goddamned time!" he snapped.

"Alright, shh," John rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, clutching the Detective's phone in the other. "Alright, we'll go to the Yard and talk to him. Be calm, OK? You flying off the handle won't change things or better anything. Don't be…you about this. Take a breath and do this on a steady mind, please?"

Sherlock glared at him but inhaled a breath – a calming approach? – and nodded in compliance. "OK." He agreed.

Lestrade had no time to think as the door to his office was thrust open and Sherlock powered in, John looking apologetic behind him and a pissed off Sally behind them both. The office outside was alive with whispers at Sherlock's presence and though he wasn't exactly happy to be barged in on, Lestrade said nothing to that effect. "Thanks, Sally," he waved her off and she begrudgingly left the room, closing the door behind her. "You can come in here shouting the odds all you like, Sherlock, but the evidence is there and it warrants bringing him in for questioning, no matter who he is or where his political standing." Lestrade spoke with seriousness and a no-nonsense tone.

"I know," Sherlock breathed and both Greg and John frowned in shock. "I know I can't stop you questioning him but I need you to hear what I think I know. Please?"

"Sherlock, I thought…" John began and Sherlock shook his head.

"Mycroft wasn't there, I can almost guarantee it. His prints have been duplicated by some manner of experiment, I don't know what. But I am certain that he knows who was there. He knows." Sherlock spoke with resigned defeat. "I just want one thing."

Greg nodded, "Sure, what?"

"Let me be there, behind the glass, when you question him. I can't do what you wanted, with a wire and record his confession because I know there won't be one and…and he's my brother but I want to see what he does. I know when he's lying and I know when he's being completely genuine. We both know he's going to lie to you and try to put you along different lines, at least then I can tell you what you should take seriously or not afterwards." Sherlock asked with an edge of pleading in his tone that saddened John.

Greg looked at John a moment, then nodded squarely at Sherlock, "Of course." He replied, resigned.

"Are you doing it today?" John asked, pushing his hands into the pockets of his trousers.

Lestrade exhaled noisily, apparently thinking over his options. He pointed to Sherlock, "I take it you're working on some lead for this?" Sherlock nodded, "Keep going with it." he licked his lips then looked back at John, "We'll give it a couple of days, he's not stupid and he knows I'll come to you and that you'll come to me so we'll need to let the land settle, give him a bit of time to work things through because you know he's going to cook something up."

"Then why give him the opportunity to fish for defence?" John frowned, drawing out his hands and folding his arms across his chest defensively.

"For Sherlock," Greg responded, eying the Detective. "You're adamant he wasn't there but that he knows his prints are and you prove that?"

"Yes," Sherlock nodded fervently.

"And you're mind's already working on why and how?"

John smirked as Sherlock nodded again, "Yes."

Tonguing his cheek, Lestrade nodded, pushing his jacket back as he rested his hands on his slim hips, "Right. Good, Tuesday then, OK? We'll send officers down on Tuesday and by then you need to have been back here with reasons and evidence of some kind, you hear me?" He jabbed his finger in Sherlock's direction. The detective's small nod ended the line of questioning.

John sighed, shaking his head into the thick atmosphere that hung over the office. He wasn't sure about this, about any of it; Sherlock should be at home working on himself, physio and counselling to try and right-side-up him again rather than racing across the city in an attempt to see his brother cleared of a crime it looked pretty-damn-likely he committed! John didn't want to coddle Sherlock, paraplegia didn't have to be the undoing of a life like anyone else's, but everything felt rushed and far, far too soon. He wasn't mentally ready for all of this, how in the Hell was Sherlock?

"For what it's worth, I'm sorry." Greg spoke up, edging behind his desk and sitting down, his gaze flicking between John and Sherlock respectively. "Finding out family have themselves wrapped up in something hurtful isn't easy. He can be a bastard, I know, we've had our run-ins, but he's your brother and I know this isn't an easy situation."

"I know he didn't do it, as long as we can get that in writing in your notes, there's nothing to worry about." Sherlock flicked his fingers together absentmindedly in his lap.

"And if we can't?" John spoke up, "Then what, Sherlock? If you find out he's lying, that he was there and he did do this, that your theories are wrong, then what? He'll go to jail."

"He won't, I won't press charges."

"The case is already moving, Sherlock!" John snapped. "If he is found guilty, it changes everything."

"He is guilty; he's bought us a house, John! He is bloody guilty. But he didn't do it; he didn't shoot me. I'll prove it…I just need time and I need to know what he knows." Sherlock sounded wining, exhausted and emotional and John knew it would be a matter of time before they faced an angry meltdown or an embarrassing (for the Detective) flood of tears if they didn't settle this here and go home.

John inhaled and let his head lull back. He nodded slowly twice as he righted himself and exhaled loudly. "Alright, OK," he held out his hands in a stop-motion. "C'mon, let's go home, you look exhausted."

"I'm fine," Sherlock's jaw tightened and Lestrade watched them closely.

"Sherlock, you're pale, tired and angry and being here isn't the best place for that. Let's go home, take care of a few things and try to relax. You dying of a heart attack is all I need right now." He placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, "Please? Greg's doing what he can and we can't do anything standing here anyway."

"I've got it under as much control as possible Sherlock, honestly." Greg submitted. "Go, you need to take better care of yourself. Take it easy for a few hours."

"Stop it, alright? I'm not tired, I'm in pain, I'm not incapable and I'm not a bloody invalid." Sherlock snapped and John visibly winced. "You ruined a quiet morning after a night that had been a step forwards for me with all this, Lestrade," Sherlock edged forwards, pointing his finger at Greg accusingly, "You dragged me into this, you, so don't start with the holier than thou routine when things finally start to get a little deeper. This is my problem, my hurt, not yours, and you will not shut me out of you, got that?" he slapped his hand down onto the desk and Greg barely flinched. He'd seen Sherlock recovering from drug abuse and high as a kite, anger and Sherlock went hand-in-hand in the initial period of the time he'd known the detective and was something he had learned to handle.

"Feel better?" Greg asked, flicking a pen between his fingers. Jaw tightened, Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose and then blew it out like a raging bull. He nodded sheepishly and relaxed back, examining his hands. "Good," Greg's voice sang a little, "Now get out of my office and go home, I'll call you tomorrow."

It feels great to be back in the driving seat with this story, I've been out of it for so long and it's flowing again which is AMAZING. Thank you for the comments on the previous post, glad to know you came back - it was a real boost. I'm part-way through the next update, so that'll be up tomorrow, too.

Once again thanks to Hannah and Rasmus (though there's no medical jargon in this, they will always be my saving graces!)

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 726