Bounding onto the pavement outside Scotland Yard, Sherlock immediately hailed a taxi and beckoned impatiently as John made his way out more slowly. John clambered into the back seat, whacking Sherlock in the shins more or less accidentally with his crutches.

“221B Baker Street,” Sherlock told the cabbie.

“What?” protested John, “I’m not going back to that public health hazard you live in!”

Sherlock turned to glare at him. “My flat is not a public health hazard,” he said gravely, “at least, not anymore, and considering your latest abode is currently a burnt out shell and you have been living in a hotel ever since, I don’t think you have much of a leg to stand on, do you?”

“Oh, ha very ha, Sherlock,” John said sourly, “And anyway, my hotel is very nice; it has a sauna and a steam room.”

Sherlock made a dismissive gesture. “Hotels are never nice,” he declared, “They merely fulfill a function either badly or tolerably.”

“Well, I’m perfectly happy in mine, thank you, “John objected, more for form’s sake than anything else. “I’m still quite wealthy, you know, despite the film star lifestyle I’ve been leading.”

Sherlock snorted. “Just shut up and concentrate on keeping those crutches over your side of the cab.”

As he walked over the threshold at 221B, John’s jaw dropped. The boxes and piles of equipment had been tidied and filed away, the hazardous waste had been magically removed, Sherlock’s violin lay resplendent in its case on top of the bookcase and his music was displayed artistically on the stand. The tired old armchairs had been given a new lease of life with bright new cushions and there was a cosy fire burning in the grate.

As he stood and stared, Mrs Hudson bustled in with a tray of tea.

“Nice to see you again, Doctor Watson,” she said with a knowing smile. “I suppose you’ll be wanting to move in some time over the weekend?”

John gave a puzzled frown. “Ah, did Sherlock say something to you about me, then?” he asked.

Mrs Hudson was too busy pouring the tea, plumping up the cushions and kissing Sherlock gently on the cheek in a motherly fashion to reply. Sherlock seemed to endure it without complaint, something which John found quietly amusing.

“Now then, boys,” Mrs Hudson said, “no all-night parties or riotous behavior – and you’ll stop him from shooting the walls again, won’t you, Doctor Watson?”

“Of course he will, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock interrupted testily, “that’s exactly what I’m keeping him for.”

Her girlish laughter floated back up the stairs. John stared, opened his mouth then sighed and sat down to drink his tea; sometimes the line of least resistance was the safest.

Silence fell for a while as John contemplated the flickering flames in the grate and Sherlock paced about taking stock of various experiments.

“So what am I doing here, Sherlock?” John asked after a while. He looked at the other man.

Sherlock frowned. “I thought I made it perfectly plain,” he replied. “You’re moving in here with me. You don’t think Mrs Hudson and Mycroft’s minions cleared all my stuff up and cleaned the place for my sake alone, do you? Not to mention smoothing the way over that little matter of over-prescription.”

John chuckled and shook his head. “No, I don’t suppose they did,” he replied. “So we’re flat-sharing, then?”

“That would seem to be the plan, yes,” Sherlock replied. The unspoken “your brain works at the speed of a snail” hung in the air.

“On what basis?” John persisted.

Sherlock paused, looked down at his feet and exhaled heavily. “On whatever basis you want,” he replied in a low voice. He looked up again.

“I’m not good at this, John,” Sherlock said. “You heard what Phelps had to say about me. I won’t deny any of it; it’s all true – the psych reports, the appalling behaviors, the body parts – none of it was inaccurate in the slightest. Oh, except that bit about the arson case. I know better than to get caught fire-raising; that wasn’t me, it was Mycroft.”

“Your brother?” John said.

“Mycroft is my brother, yes,” Sherlock replied testily and then relented, “Alright, I’ll tell you about it sometime. It’s one of the few occasions I have ever had the privilege of genuinely laughing at him.”

Sherlock expelled a breath of air. “What I’m trying to say is,” he continued in slightly muffled tones, “I’d be happy to flat-share with you on whatever basis you like. We can co-habit and ignore each other’s existence if you want. We can greet each other politely on the stairs, or we can share the groceries and the bills. We can lead separate lives, or you can help me with my work – it’s up to you.”

“And the other night?" John queried in a neutral tone.

Sherlock swallowed and looked away. “We don’t have to do that again,” he said quietly, “but I won’t be looking elsewhere if it can’t happen with you.”

Haunted by what might have been.

It wasn’t much but this was Sherlock Holmes and it was more of an apology than anyone else had ever managed to wring out of him. John seemed to realize this; he was silent for a few moments.

“I didn’t lie to you, you know,” John said finally into the quiet of the flat. “I did what I had to do to protect Mary and Alex – for god’s sake, I hardly knew you. I could scarcely bare my soul on what was little more than a first meeting.” He sighed. “You weren’t exactly encouraging either.”

Sherlock bowed his head. “I was angry,” he admitted. “I hurt you.”

John nodded. “You did,” he replied thoughtfully, “and now you’re asking me to pull out of Medecin sans Frontieres and stay here with you in England. That’s a pretty big ask, Sherlock. I mean, I’ll be unemployed.”

“I know that,” Sherlock replied, “and you have no real reason to trust me after what I… what with our history of doubt and suspicion.”

“I do though,” John blurted.

Sherlock smirked. “Of course you do,” he replied loftily.

“Wanker,” John responded with no heat and chucked a cushion with a Union Jack cover. Sherlock ducked neatly and took refuge behind the other armchair.

“How could I help you with your work?” John asked, returning to some semblance of seriousness.

Sherlock abruptly lit up. He paced around the living room. “You’re an army doctor used to violence and mayhem on a daily basis,” he replied. “I need an assistant who isn’t too annoyingly stupid, both at crime scenes and elsewhere. You’ve proved you can think out of the box – those photographs from the Teddington drowning are a case in point. I can’t think of anyone better qualified. And also,” Sherlock added, stopping his pacing to stare at John, “you’re a fellow addict.”

John frowned. “Just how do you work that one out?” he demanded.

Sherlock shrugged. “You’ve been bored out of your skull with medicine,” he replied, “but your shoulder wound means you wouldn’t pass the physical for active service; that’s why you elected to work for Medecin Sans Frontieres – just to get back onto the front line. John, you were never traumatized by your war experiences, you miss them!”

John stared. Sherlock crouched down at John’s feet, gripping the man’s knees with his hands.

“You’ve seen first-hand the kind of mayhem that makes up my life,” Sherlock continued. “You can have a share in it, if you want. I need a colleague, a partner if you prefer. I like company when I go out and I think better when I talk aloud; the skull just attracts attention. And I need someone to watch my back – things can get very dangerous at times. Oh, and it doesn’t hurt that you’re a crack shot either.”

John’s eyes were suspiciously bright. Sherlock raised his head to meet John’s eyes and a flicker of a smile played round his lips. John placed his hands carefully over Sherlock’s and the other man’s fingers curled tentatively around his.

“You just said ‘dangerous’,” John replied, unable to prevent his smile breaking out into a broad grin, “and here I am.”