#worstan

 ///-\\\

 It took fifteen minutes at the crime scene for Sherlock to determine who had taken John. By the time he got there, Mary had found someone to take Rosie off her hands for the time being and had set up her own perimeter around the car.

 John chose well, in her, he thought silently.

 He had taken a look at the spot and saw John’s keys lying on the ground and had to swallow back a lump of panic. Just like any other case, find and analyse the evidence. Solve the case, he told himself firmly.

 He examined the area, scanned their receipt to see if they had taken anything from their grocery bags, searched the area around the car. Nothing else had been taken, nothing other than John’s keys left behind. A quick look at the lot surveillance yielded a lucky shot of John walking out into the car lot and being tailed by a black van. The footage showed a man opening the side door, hitting John in the neck with something and dragging him into the van before it sped into motion and leaving for parts unknown.

 The van had been partially blocked on the bottom of the frame so it was impossible to read the plate but what they did find made Sherlock’s heart soar with hope. The hand that had delivered the blow to the neck had a tattoo on the back of his hand.

 “I know who took him,” Sherlock declared with delight. Without another thought, he was running out the door and all set to retrieve John himself.

 A grip to the back of his coat stopped him short.

 “Sherlock Fucking Holmes, if you think you’re rescuing my husband without me then you are sorely mistaken.”

 A turn of his head brought an angry, determined Mary Watson into view. Instantly chastised Sherlock stilled. He cleared his throat, “of course. Apologies.”

 Lestrade spoke up and said, “who took him, Sherlock? Tell us and we can all go and get him back safely.”

 Sherlock straightened his coat like a disgruntled bird would smooth its feathers. “A man named Panczenko. Rather, an associate of Panczenko, I recognize the tattoo. I ran into them during my time away. He’s an arms dealer, dabbles in the drug trade and was looking into expanding his enterprise in Russia. I discovered him when I was dismantling Moriarty’s network. I might have caused,” he hesitated, trying to phrase his words correctly, “a slight upset in his supply line.”

 “How,” Mary asked.

 “He had a shipment of guns in a warehouse that I accidentally liquidated.”

 “Is that a fancy way of saying you destroyed the warehouse,” Lestrade asked.

 Sherlock nodded. “More accurately, I had to blow it up. The warehouse they were using was partly owned by a member of the network I had been hunting. I couldn’t get close to him, not without some measure of personal risk. So, I had to go with a more...covert approach.”

 “A bomb is covert,” Lestrade asked incredulously.

 Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time. Could detonate from afar, ensure maximum likelihood of death, cathartic in a sense.”

 “Hang on, how did they find out about you, though,” Mary asked.

 “Criminals talk. I was taking out people left and right, in those days. I didn’t think I was coming home. I wasn’t exactly careful, after a certain point. It’s how I eventually got caught.”

 “And now they want revenge,” Mary said plainly. “Exactly how much did you blow up?”

 “Several hundred thousand pounds worth of merchandise. Some members of their organization, too. Not exactly a write off.”

 Mary, in a second, had turned from “scared wife and mother” to “ready for battle assassin”. For not the first time in his life, and certainly not the last, Sherlock was impressed by Mary’s ability to prioritize and seamlessly blend into any situation she found herself in. Staring up at him she said, “well, what are we waiting for? Let’s go get our John back.”

 Sherlock nodded and said, “yes. Let’s go get our John back.”

 ///-\\\

 When Sherlock and Mary burst into his cell, both brandishing guns and murderous scowls, John had to fight the urge to laugh and kiss them both. They were both stunning, sweeping into the room, almost in slow motion to John’s tired brain, looking like some kind of old school spy movie.

 I watch too much fucking James Bond, he thought distantly.

 Not long after, a policeman came barreling in, guarding the door. Commotion rang outside but John couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when the two loves of his life were crouched in front of him, touching his face with concern.

 Mary swept his sweaty fringe back to inspect a cut on his forehead while Sherlock cupped and held his cheeks up to the light to examine his black eye.

 “What have they done to you, John,” Mary asked, barely containing her anger.

 “Just roughed me up a bit,” John answered, wincing at their prodding.

 “Black eye, split lip, two superficial cuts to the forehead,” Sherlock rattled off automatically. He pushed John’s head to the side to look at his neck and he surprised all present by literally growling at what he found. “Whoever kidnapped you was a bloody butcher. I’ve seen better injection sites from first year med students and shaky junkies.”

 John smiled fondly and shoved them both off. “If you two are quite done.” He held out his hands for them to help him rise, which they did, and he staggered a little on his feet. Immediately two arms came around his waist to support him. Between the aftereffects of the drugs, having no food or water in the twelve hours he’d been captive, and the knocking around he’d been given, he was not at his best. “Take me home, if you would be so kind.”

 “Yes, John,” his wife and best friend answered in tandem.

 On the way home, sandwiched between Mary and Sherlock while Lestrade drove, the two grilled him about his time as a captive. On autopilot, he told them that he was asked details about Sherlock’s life. People he loved were threatened if he didn’t answer and he was beaten repeatedly when he didn’t comply.

 When Lestrade pulled up in front of Mary and John’s flat, he offered Sherlock a ride but the detective waived it off. “John needs looking after.”

 John anticipated Mary telling him that she was capable of taking care of him herself but, to his surprise, she seconded Sherlock’s statement. His heart felt full. Normally, he found himself tugged in two directions: the family he had always wanted with Mary and Rosie on one side, Sherlock and the adventure he had always needed on the other. He loved them both tremendously and felt guilt gnaw at him whenever he was with one without the other. He was better, happier, when he could have them both in the same room.

 He had stopped hiding his feelings after Sherlock came back. At least from himself he did. It was Mary who ended up saying the words out loud first. Long after the bullet wound had healed, not long after they brought Rosie home. He had spent so much time away from Sherlock that it made him ache. But parting from his wife, his new child, the thought made him feel like scum.

 He couldn’t decide which was worse.

 She cornered him after putting their daughter to bed. “You love him. He loves you.”

 “I do. I think he does.”

 “It’s obvious.”

 John had laughed humorlessly. “You two sound so alike. What’s that say about me, then? Hmm?”

 “That you’re in love. And you’re feeling guilty as shit, not wanting to choose.” She had stared him down, not pulling away from him or their situation. “I’ll not lose you, John,” she had told him plainly. “But I do think there could be...accommodations made.”

 John shook his head. “I would never risk us.” It was unclear if he was talking about his friendship with Sherlock or his marriage with Mary. It didn’t really matter. There was too much at stake.

 Mary had kissed him then and told him, “you might be surprised. My offer stands. If you ever gather the courage to ask him.”

 That conversation haunted him for months. The offer sat on the tip of his tongue for weeks and each day he grew closer to saying it. But in the end, he always chickened out.

 Dragging his thoughts to the present, John walked into his house with Mary in front of him and Sherlock behind. He wash ushered into the shower by Mary and Sherlock announced he would make John dinner.

 He cleaned himself thoroughly, sighing at the warm water working magic on his stiff, sore limbs. When he emerged, it was to the smell of a proper fry up and fresh pajamas. On the nightstand was two paracetamol tablets and a glass of water, which he downed greedily. Empty glass in hand, he went in search of his rescuers.

 In the kitchen he was handed another glass of water and then a cup of tea. Both went down easily and soon a plate of food was put in front of him. After his plate was clean, he looked at both Sherlock and Mary and asked, “what now?”

 His wife and friend looked at each other then back to John. Sherlock remained silent and Mary sighed, exhausted. “This ends right now.”

 John’s heart lurched in his chest. “What are you talking about?”

 “I’m tired of pretending like you two aren’t completely gone over each other.”

 “Mary,” John started, not wanting to get into it just yet but Mary was having none of it.

 “Neither of us can live without you, John.” She let the statement fall. Silence followed it, heavy and thick. Her eyes watered and she averted her gaze to try and hide it. “While you were gone, while we were looking for you, we talked.”

 John licked his lips nervously. “Go on.”

 Mary, landed her gaze on Sherlock and it seemed to him that she was begging Sherlock to say something. He cleared his throat and toyed with his own hot mug of tea.

 “It was mutually agreed that neither of us can let you go. Nor are we willing to let you continue feeling guilty for having to choose between us.”

 John’s palms began to sweat and his eyes darted between the two people who he loved most in the world. “So...what does that mean?” A million thoughts zipped through his mind.

 Is one of them leaving? I think, I know I can’t handle that. Losing Sherlock almost killed me, Mary’s the mother of my child, how do I keep them, I can’t-

 “Stop thinking, John,” Sherlock told him firmly.

 John swallowed thickly. “I...I can’t.”

 “You don’t have to. We’re not going anywhere,” Mary promised.

 “What does that mean,” John asked, tired and growing increasingly unsure.

 “It means,” Sherlock said, turning to look at Mary.

 “That we’re making room,” she concluded for him.

 John sat, brain unwilling to process the information he had received. Without a word, Sherlock and Mary rose and helped him stand and lead him to the bedroom. Mary left the two men alone while she checked on their daughter and John finally seemed to find his words without so many people in the room.

 “So you just decided all this without me, then?”

 “Are you saying you don’t want this?”

 “That’s not what I’m saying,” John replied instantly.

 “Then don’t overthink it.”

 John sat on the edge of the bed, covering his eyes with his hand. “This is so complicated. So fucked, I don’t know where to even begin.” He looked up at Sherlock and asked, “how did we get here?”

 Sherlock stared right back and said, “Who cares, John?”

 “Who cares, indeed,” Mary said, walking back into the room. She began changing, readying herself for bed and John was about to protest, uncomfortable with the sudden ease of nudity in the room but she beat him to it. “We’re going to be getting very familiar in short order, might as well get a jump on things.”

 She dug into John’s drawers and pulled out an oversized shirt and a pair of John’s pajama pants. “Might be a little short, but they’ll do.” She tossed them to Sherlock and said, “extra toothbrush on the sink.”

 “Thank you,” he said softly, leaving to go ready himself for bed.

 John sighed. “Better go make up the couch, then.” He tried to rise and Mary gently pushed him back down on the bed. “You’ll do nothing of the sort. He sleeps here. There’s room enough.”

 “But-”

 “But nothing, John.” She smiled at him and said, “I agree that this is...odd. But since when have we three been normal, eh?”

 Accepting defeat, John nodded once and slipped between the sheets. Soon Mary joined him and then, standing awkwardly in the doorway, Sherlock appeared. He fidgeted with his fingers and John took one look and, finally realizing all he could have if he just stopped thinking, took pity on him. He held up a corner of the duvet and said, “get over here, git.”

 Sherlock relaxed and did as told. John soon found himself in the middle of his bed with a head resting on each shoulder. For the first time since Sherlock’s return, he felt completely and totally whole. His arms squeezed the two of them close and he let out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding. He had never been so at peace.

 There was just one thing that would make the situation perfect.

Reading his thoughts, Mary tilted her head up and kissed him slowly, sweet, familiar lips welcoming him home. “We’ll figure it out in the morning. Good night, John.” She looked over at Sherlock with a look that said your turn, dummy.

 Sherlock moved slowly and said, “John, may I-”

 “Yes,” John finished for him.

 Almost shyly, Sherlock cupped his chin with one hand and John angled his lips down to meet Sherlock’s. Soft as Mary’s but more timid. Over far too quick for a first kiss, but perfect nonetheless, Sherlock pulled back and said, “good night, John.”

 He pressed one more quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips and then turned to kiss the top of Mary’s head. He said aloud, to them both, “good night.” Then, softly, he added, “I love you.”

 “Love you, too,” the two voices against his chest answered.