Thank you, as always, you lovely people and I hope you enjoyed this chapter!

The taxi ride back to Lisson Grove was a quiet one. Sherlock stared out of the window whilst, sitting across from him, John's eyes were glued to Sherlock. John wanted to tell Sherlock to stop completely; he wanted to put his foot down, pull rank and order that the barely younger man cease and desist with anything to do with Detective work for at least a month. But how could he? Sherlock lived for his work, thrived off of it, and he only served to get deeper involved when a case had true meaning to him and what could be more meaningful than himself and his brother? John knew that, no matter what he said, he couldn't make Sherlock draw back and, as much as he wanted to, he would never ask him to.

"Stop it." Sherlock finally muttered as the taxi drew up at the set of lights just before the turning into Lisson Grove.

"Stop what?" John licked his lips and replied with all the nonchalance he could muster.

"Staring at me," Sherlock turned and set his wide eyes on John. "It's unnerving," he added with a slight frown to his brow. "And it makes me feel a bit scrutinised."

"As appose to being the one actually doing the scrutinising?" John quizzed, clasping his hands in his lap.

"Something along those lines that, yeah." Sherlock responded and something close to a smile drew up the left side of his mouth softly.

"You really do look a bit peaky," John submitted carefully as the taxi doors clicked and the engine charged as it pulled away from the lights. "Are you feeling OK?"

"A bit heady, perhaps I'm getting a cold." Sherlock dismissed, "It's nothing; I'm quite alright."

"It's been a full on day," John reasoned, reaching for his belt as the taxi turned into their road. "Perhaps all you need is to get home and switch off. Thanks, here's great," he called through to the driver, fishing in his jacket pocket for his wallet. "Hold still a minute," he placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, the detective moving quicker than everyone else in a bid to get out of the taxi.

It took a moment for the ramp to be fixed into place – the driver seemed less inclined to help and more about sorting his fare and leaving – and Sherlock was rapidly losing patience. After a battle of wills, the ramp finally clicked open properly and John maneuverer awkwardly behind Sherlock, his hands twisted around the low seatback, to ease the chair onto the pavement: the only (and he meant only) downside John had noticed to Sherlock's new chair was that the lack of handles made assistance nigh on impossible.

John thanked the driver, though he was unsure why, and trailed a step or two behind Sherlock along the small stretch of sidewalk before they entered into the front garden and up, into the house. Once inside, John's entire body seemed to relax. He barely had his coat unfastened and his shoes kicked off before his limbs felt weighty and relaxed, the way one always felt when arriving home from work in the middle of winter to a toasty-warm house and a roaring fire with the promise of a wintery dinner and a cup of tea.

"Cuppa?" he offered, heading on socked feet into the kitchen. Still working on his coat, Sherlock simply nodded his reply at John. "Tea or coffee?" he clarified.

"Tea," Sherlock called out, hoisting his jacket from behind his back and hung it on the banister. He followed into the kitchen, loitering in the doorway. He watched John busy himself at the counter, dragging out teabags and mugs, clattering the draws and cupboard doors as he moved. "Answer me honestly," he called into the quiet.

"I always do." John said, without looking up, and flicked the kettle on to boil.

"Do you think he did it, in all honesty, my theories aside; do you think Mycroft is wholly responsible?" Sherlock clasped his hands in his lap, his hair mussed and his face pale and exhausted-looking. His eyes searched John as the doctor finally lifted his head to look at him.

Leaning against the counter, John crossed his arms over his chest as he considered his words carefully. He inhaled, let it out in a sigh and then shrugged his shoulders.

"I won't be mad." Sherlock said gently, "I want to know what you think."

"Honestly? I don't know what I think. I think it's ridiculous to assume your brother would shoot you, mostly because I can't think of a reason why he would, but there is so much evidence against him. And yet, I can't believe it was him. Do I think he knows who did? Yes, and I think he is hugely instrumental but I don't think it was meant for you. I think that you being the target was not the initial idea, but I don't have the brain like you do to figure everything out," he licked his lips and shrugged his shoulders again, "I can't think of motives like you can, but I do think your theory is the most likely scenario, right up until the faking of fingerprints – that's a bit elaborate, even for Mycroft."

Sherlock's expression didn't change; he looked neither pleased nor pissed off to hear John's opinion. The boiling of the kettle was a momentary break in the rising tension, but the moment John had both cups filled and the kettle back on the tipper, Sherlock's words tumbled from his mouth in an apparently unstoppable stream of babbling, semi-coherent words that stopped John in his tracks.

"I'm…out of my depth. My brain – won't – work." Sherlock slapped his hand against the side of his head twice. "I know what I want to think, what I want to make become the outcome but I can't see it or link it or believe any of it," he looked helplessly at John. "I'm angry at myself for being so stupid, for not knowing or being able to find out what's going on. He's my brother, I grew up watching him lie and cheat and learning to read him and at the moment I can't do it."

John opened and closed his mouth like a guppy. He didn't know what to say, how to appease him, and he didn't believe that anything he could say would work, anyway. He licked his lips out of habit and sighed out, lost for words.

"I'm not me anymore – it's all gone," he held out both hands in a pathetic, self-loathing crucifix and shrugged. "Nothing's working," he bit his bottom lip as he brought his arms back down. "Did they get the bullets out? Are you sure they got everything? Because I'm sure something's lodged in my brain and turned everything off. I can't think, there's no noise and when there is it's just the same, stupid thing over and over again. I'm just done, John. I mean it, I can't…I'm…." He froze. He shook his head and reached down to the wheels, moving himself backward out of the kitchen and eased toward the lift, ignoring John as he called him to come back.

"Sherlock, wait…" John padded behind the detective but was met with the closing lift doors. "Fuck." He hung his head; the lows he'd been expecting had come – out of the blue and so sudden and sharp it was like a shark bite – and John found that he, too, was completely out of his depth.

Date: 2015-12-18; view: 844